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LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS. 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS. 


BY 

PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

j.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


DEDICATION. 

TO    MY    WIFE. 

AH  !  once  I  held  the  Poet's  flame 

A  steadfast,  heavenly  star,  above 
The  loftiest  lights  of  mortal  fame,— 
And  to  have  won  the  Poet's  name 

I  dreamed  was  more  than  love  ! 

Now,  were  a  Shakspeare's  radiant  crown 

By  all  the  Muses  borne  to  me, 
I  would  not  grasp  that  fair  renown, 
If  thus  my  soul  must  needs  disown 

Its  love,  dear  Heart !  for  thee. 

Even  Shakspeare's  fame  at  last  shall  sink, 

His  titles  fail,  his  splendors  die  ; 
But  love, — s^^ch  love  as  ours,  I  think, 
Was  born,  o'er  Time  and  Death  to  drink 

Of  immortality ! 

So,  for  love's  sake,  but  scarce  for  aught 

These  wavering  strains  may  sing  thee,  Sweet, 
I  bind  these  sheaves  of  rhythmic  thought, 
Spring-sown,  but  in  late  autumn  brought, 
And  laid  before  thy  feet ! 


M768814 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Daphles — (An  Argive  Story) 13 

Renewed , 32 

Krishna  and  his  Three  Handmaidens 35 

Under-the  Pine — (To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Timrod) 37 

A  Dream  of  the  South  Wind 40 

Aethra 42 

In  the  Mist 43 

The  Bonny  Brown  Hand 44 

A  Summer  Mood 46 

Midnight 48  - 

Sonnet — (Addressed  to  William  Morris) 49  . 

Sonnet — (November) 50 

Sonnet — (Sylvan  Musings — In  May) 50 

Sonnet— (The  Cottage  on  the  Hill) 51 

Sonnet — (Poets) 5^ 

Sonnet— (The  Phantom  Bells) 52- 

Sonnet 53 

Sonnet— (The  Life-Forest) 54. 

Sonnet — (Cloud-Fantasies) 54  . 

Sonnet 55  - 

(  vii  ) 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Sonnet 56-- 

Fire  Pictures 56 

From  the  Woods 65 

An  Anniversary 66 

Dolce  far  Niente 69 

Cambyses  and  the  Macrobian  Bow 70 

By  the  Autumn  Sea 74 

The  Wife  of  Brittany 75 

The  River 108 

The  Nest in 

The  Little  Saint in 

The  Story  of  Glaucus  the  Thessalian 113  — 

Sonnet 120  "' 

Marguerite 120  — 

Not  Dead 122  — 

Apart 124  — 

"  In  Utroque  Fidelis" 125  — 

The  Lotos  and  the  Lily 127- 

Windless  Rain 129-- 

Chloris 130  .- 

Nature,  Betrothed  and  Wedded 131  - 

Fortunio — (A  Parable  for  the  Times) JSS" 

Stonewall  Jackson 136    - 

The  Little  White  Glove 141  * 

A  Feudal  Picture 143 

The  Warning 146 

Drifting 147  - 

Sonnet —  ( Carolina) *49 


CONTENTS.  ix 

I'AGH 

Sonnet— (Leigh  Hunt) 150" 

Sonnet 151* 

Sonnet — (Soul  Advances) I51" 

Ode  to  Sleep 152- 

Song 155 

Hopes  and  Memories 156 

Widderin's  Race i56~ 

October 165 

Here  and  There 167. 

Ode  in  Honor  of  the  Bravery  and  Sacrifices  of  the  Soldiers  of  the 

South 168- 

Sonnet — (Illegitimate) 176- 

Sonnet — (Vernal  Pictures — Without  and  Within) 177- 

Welcome  to  Winter 178 

Will 179 

Sonnet 181- 

To  My  Mother 182 


Love  and  be  loved !  yet  know  love 's  holiest  deeps 

Few  sound  while  living  f  when  the  loved  one  sleeps 

That  last,  strange  sleep  beneath  the  mournful  sod, 

Then  Memory  wakes,  like  some  remorseful  god, 

And  all  the  golden  past,  we  scarce  did  prize, 

Subtly  revives,  with  light  of  tender  eyes, 

That  smiled  their  soft  forgiveness  on  our  wrongs, — 

And  old  thoughts  rise,  with  echoes  of  sweet  songs, — 

Soul-nightingales,  in  pensive  twilight  born, 

To  press  their  throbbing  breasts  against  the  thorn 

Of  sharp  regret!  till  love  so  blends  with  pain, 

And  self-reproach  with  passion,  we  would  fain 

Re-live  our  years,  their  dim  track  jo.urney  ing  o'er, 

That  thus,  our  lost  Beloved,  lost  no  more 

In  the  vague  distances  of  dreadful  death, — 

Might  read  our  hearts,  and  feel  what  passionate  breath 

Half  stifled  once,  is  quick  to  thrill  and  burn 

In  the  keen  fervor  of  that  love' s  return, 

Whose  kiss  once  dropped  on  heedless  eyes  and  brow, 

Is  all  of  heaven  we  madly  yearn  for  now  ! 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


DAPHLES. 

AN    ARGIVE     STORY. 

ONCE  on  the  throne  of  Argos  sat  a  maid, — 

Daphles  the  fair ;  serene  and  unafraid 

She  ruled  her  realm,  for  the  rough  folk  were  brought 

To  worship  one  they  deemed  divinely  wrought 

In  beauty  and  mild  graciousness  of  heart : 

Nobles  and  courtiers,  too,  espoused  her  part, 

So  that  the  sweet  young  face  all  thronged  to  see, 

Glanced  from  her  throne-room's  silken  canopy 

(Broidered  with  leaves,  and  many  a  snow-white  dove), 

Rosily  conscious  of  her  people's  love. 

Only  the  chief  of  a  far  frontier  clan, 

A  haughty,  bold,  ambitious  nobleman, 

By  law  her  vassal,  but  self-sworn  to  be 

From  subject-tithe,  and  tribute  boldly  free, 

And  scorning  most  this  weak  girl-sovereign's  reign, 

Now  from  the  mountain  fastness  to  the  plain 

Summoned  his  savage  legions  to  the  fight, — 

Wherein  he  hoped  to  wrench  the  imperial  might  • 

From  Daphles,  and  confirm  his  claim  thereto. 

But  Doracles,  the  insurgent  chief,  could  know 


I4  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

\  Naught  of  the  secret  charm,  the  subtle  stress 
Of  beauty  wed  to  warm  unselfishness, 
Which,  in  her  hour  of  trial,  wrapped  the  Queen 
Safely  apart,  in  golden  air  serene 
Of  deep  devotion,  and  fond  faith  of  those 
The  steadfast  hearts  betwixt  her  and  her  foes. 
The  oldest  courtier,  schooled  in  state-craft  guile, 
Some  loyal  fire  at  her  entrancing  smile 
Felt  strangely  kindled  in  his  outworn  soul ; 
Far  more  the  warrior  youths  her  soft  control 
Moulded  to  noble  deeds,  till  all  the  land, 
Aroused  at  Love's  and  Honor's  joint  command, 
Bristled  with  steel,  and  rang  with  sounds  of  war. 

Still  rashly  trusting  in  his  fortunate  star, 

This  arrogant  thrall  who  fain  would  grasp  a  crown, 

Backed    by    half -barbarous    hordes,    marched    swiftly 

down 

'Twixt  the  hill  ramparts  and  the  Western  Sea. 
First,  blazing  homesteads  greet  him,  whence  did  flee 
The  frightened  hinds  through  fires  themselves  had  lit 
'Mid  the  ripe  grain,  lest  foes  should  reap  of  it ; 
Or,  here  and  there,  some  groups  of  aged  folk, 
Women  and  men,  bent  down  beneath  the  yoke 
Of  cruel  years,  and  babbling  idiot  speech. 
"Methinks,"  cried  Doracles,  "our  arms  will  reach 
The  realm's  unshielded  heart;  forlo!  the  breath, 
The  mere  hot  fume  of  rapine  and  of  death 
Which  flames  before  our  legions,  like  a  blight 
Withers  this  people's  valor  and  their  might." 

The  fifes  played  shriller ;  the  wild  trumpet's  blast 
Smote  the  great  host,  and  thrilled  them  as  it  passed ; 


DAPHLES.  15 

While  clashing   shields,  and  spears  which  caught  the 

morn, 

And  splendid  banners  in  strong  hands  upborne, 
And  plumed  helms,  and  steeds  of  matchless  race, 
And  in  the  van  that  clear,  keen,  eagle  face 
Of  Doracles,  firm  set  on  shoulders  tall, 
Squared  like  a  rock,  and  towering  o'er  them  all, 
With  all  the  pomp  and  swell  of  martial  strife, 
Woke  the  burnt  plains  and  bleak  defiles  to  life. 
So  phalanx  after  phalanx  glittering  filed 
Firm  to  the  front :   their  haughty  leader  smiled 
To  see  with  what  a  bold  and  buoyant  air 
The  lowliest  footman  marched  before  him  there, 
Till  his  proud  head  he  lifted  to  the  sun, 
And  his  heart  leaped  as  at  a  victory  won 
That  self-same  hour,  o'er  which  bright-hovering  shone 
The  steadfast  image  of  an  ivory  throne. 

But  the  Queen's  host,  by  skillful  champions  led, 
Its  powers  meanwhile  concentred  to  a  head, 
Lay,  an  embattled  force,  with  wary  eye, 
Ready  to  ward  or  strike  whene'er  the  cry 
Of  coming  foemen  on  their  ears  should  fall, 
Nigh  the  huge  towers  which  guard  the  capital. 

Not  long  their  watch  :  one  bluff  October  day, 
There  rose  a  blare  of  trumpets  far  away, 
And  sound  of  thronging  hoofs  which  muffled  came, 
Borne  on  the  wind,  like  the  dull  noise  of  flame 
Half  stifled  in  dense  woodlands ;  then  the  wings 
Of  the  Queen's  host,  as  each  swift  section  flings 
The  imperial  banner  proudly  fluttering  out, 
Spread  from  the  royal  centre.     Hark !  a  shout, 


1 6  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

As  from  those  thousand  hearts  in  one  great  soul 

Sublimely  fused,  rose  thunder-deep,  to  roll, 

In  wild  acclaim,  far  down  the  quivering  van ; 

And  wilder  still  the  heroic  tumult  ran 

From  front  to  rear,  when,  through  her  palace  gate, 

Daphles,  in  unaccustomed  martial  state, 

A  keen  spear  shimmering  in  its  silver  hold, 

And  on  her  brow  the  Argive  crown  of  gold, 

Flashed  like  a  sunbeam  on  her  warriors'  sight. 

Girt  by  her  generals,  on  a  neighboring  height 

She  reined  her  Lybian  courser,  while  the  air 

Played  with  the  bright  waves  of  her  meteor  hair, 

And  on  her  lovely  April  face  the  tide 

Of  varied  feeling — now  a  jubilant  pride 

In  those  strong  arms  and  stronger  hearts  below, 

And  now  a  prescient  fear — did  ebb  and  flow, 

Its  sensitive  heaven  transforming  momently. 

But  soon  the  foeman's  cohorts,  like  a  sea, 

With  waves  of  steel,  and  foam  of  snow-white  plumes, 

Slowly  emerged  from  out  the  forest  glooms, 

In  splendid  pomp  and  antique  pageantry. 

An  ominous  pause  !     And  then  the  trumpets  high 

Sounded  the  terrible  onset,  and  the  field 

Rocked  as  with  earthquake,  and  the  thick  air  reeled 

With  clangors  fierce  from  echoing  hill  to  hill. 

Bloody  but  brief  the  contest !     All  the  skill 

Of  Doracles  against  the  steadfast  will 

Planted  by  love  in  faithful  hearts  that  day 

Frothed  like  an  idle  tide  that  slips  away 

From    granite    walls  !         His    knights    their    furious 

blows 
Discharged  on  what  seemed  statues  whose  repose 


DAPHLES.  17 

Was  iron,  or  their  fated  coursers  hurled 

On  spears  unbent  as  bases  of  a  world  ! 

Meanwhile  the  whole  dread  scene  did  Daphles  view 

With  anguished,  tearless  eyes.     But  when  she  knew 

The  victory  hers,  down  the  hill-slopes  she  urged 

Her  restless  steed,  where  still  but  faintly  surged 

The  last  worn  waves  of  tumult ;  there  her  bands 

Of  conquering  captains  she  with  fervent  hands 

And  o'erfraught  swelling  breast  did  proudly  greet. 

Yet  her  pale  face  was  touched  with  pity  sweet 

While  the  chained  rebels  passed  her,  worn  and  sore 

With  ghastly  wounds,  and  shivering  in  their  gore. 

But  when,  untamed,  uncowed,  in  'midst  of  these, 

The  grand,  defiant  form  of  Doracles 

Rose  like  a  god  discrowned,  her  wan  cheeks  flushed, 

And  through  her  heart  a  quick,  hot  torrent  rushed 

Of  undefined,  mysterious  sympathy. 

Viewing  that  haughty  brow,  that  unbent  knee, 

"O  kingly  head !"  she  thought,  "too  well  I  know 

How  bitter-keen  to  him  the  signal  blow 

This  day  hath  dealt !     O  kingly  resolute  eyes, 

Shrining  the  sovran  soul !   'twere  surely  wise 

To  change  their  glance  of  cold  vindictive  gloom 

To  grateful  light,  and  make  what  seemed  a  doom 

Heavy  as  death,  the  clouded  path  to  fame, 

Lordship,  and  honor  !"     Ah,  but  pity  came 

To  crown  admiring  kindness  with  a  flame 

Of  subtler  life;  for  he,  the  vanquished  one, 

On  whom  that  day  his  fate's  malignant  sun 

Had  set  in  storms,  that  night  would  slumber,  kissed 

By  a  fair  phantom  girt  with  golden  mist, 

A  new-born  delicate  love,  but  dimly  guessed 

Even  in  the  pure  depths  of  the  maiden  breast, 

2* 


!8  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Whence  the  sweet  sylph  had  'scaped  her  unaware. 

But  when  the  evening  silence  drew  anear, 

And  round  about  the  borders  of  the  world 

The  second  night  since  that  great  contest  furled 

Its  brooding  shades,  the  young  Queen,  all  alone, 

Paused  by  the  dungeon  floor  whereon  were  thrown, 

At  listless  length,  the  limbs  of  Doracles. 

"How,  how,"  she  murmured,  "may  I  best  appease 

His  stricken  pride,  or  touch  to  tender  calm 

His  fevered  honor  ?  with  what  healing  balm 

Allay  the  smart  wherewith  his  spirit  groans  ?' ' 

Perplexed,  and  yearning,  on  the  dismal  stones 

Without  the  prison  door  she  walked  apart, 

Love,  doubt,  and  shame,  all  struggling  in  her  heart, 

Till  the  large  flood  of  mingled  love  and  woe 

Rose  to  her  snowy  eyelids,  and  did  flow 

In  soft  refreshing  tears  like  spring-tide  showers; 

Then,  bright  and  blushing  as  the  moss-rose  bovvers 

Of  dewy  May,  she  pushed  the  huge  grate  back, 

And  through  the  dusky  glooms,  the'  shadows  black 

Dawned  glowingly  !     Next  for  a  moment  she 

Stood  in  a  timid,  strange  uncertainty, 

Changing  from  rosy  red  to  deathly  white ; 

When,  as  a  Queen  sustained  by  true  love's  right, 

She  spake  in  mild,  pure,  steadfastness  of  soul: 

"I  come,  O  Doracles,  with  no  mean  dole 

Of  transient  pity,  but  to  show  thee  how 

Thy  mistress  would  exalt  the  abased  brow 

Of  one  who  knows  her  not !"     Therewith  she  freed 

His  fettered  limbs,  or  yet  his  brain  could  heed 

Or  comprehend  her  mercy's  cordial  scope : 

His  soul  had  shrunk  too  low  for  dreams  of  hope, 

Such  swift  misfortunes  smote  him :  still,  when  all 

The  Queen's  fair  meaning  on  his  mind  did  fall. 


DAPHLES.  19 

The  locked  and  frozen  sternness  of  his  look 
Broke  up,  as  breaks  the  death-cold  wintry  brook 
1  Its  icy  spell  at  noonday;  yet  his  face 
Was  lighted  not  by  thankful,  reverent  grace, 
But  flashed  an  evil  triumph  where  he  stood 
Spurning  his  unloosed  chains.     In  such  base  mood, 
One  eager  foot  pressed  on  the  dungeon  stair, 
"What  terms,"  he  asked,  "O  Queen,  demand'st  thou 

here? 

I  pledge  thee  faith  !"     Silent  were  Daphles'  lips, 
And  all  her  gentle  hopes  by  swift  eclipse 
Were  darkened.     With  a  deathly  smile  she  signed 
The  chief  farewell,  as  one  who  scorned  to  bind 
Her  mercy  with  set  terms.     He  turned  to  go, 
Self-centred,  callous,  dreaming  not  how  low 
Her  heart  had  sunk  at  each  cold,  shallow  word 
With  which  his  barren  nature,  faintly  stirred 
By  ruth,  or  love,  or  pardon,  dared  repay 
Her  matchless  mercy.     On  his  unchecked  way 
He  turned  to  go,  when  with  one  shuddering  sob, 
And  deep-drawn,  plaintive  breath,  which  seemed  to  rob 
Life  of  its  last  dear  hope,  the  Queen  sank  down, 
Wrapped  in  a  death-like  trance.     With  sullen  frown, 
And  many  a  muttered  oath,  he  raised  her  form, 
Frail  now  as  some  pale  lily  by  the  storm 
Wind-blown  and  beaten;  for  at  woman's  love 
He  could  but  vaguely  guess,  and  no  poor  dove 
Pierced  by  the  woodman's  shaft  was  less  to  him 
Than  this  fair  spirit  struggling  in  the  dim 
And  tortured  twilight  of  unshared  desire ; 
Nor  could  he  part  the  pure  romantic  fire 
Of  such  high  passion  from  the  lukewarm  flame 
That  feebly  burns  in  sordid  hearts  and  tame, 


20  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Not  of  love's  heat,  but  vacant  flattery's  born, 

To  feed  his  pride,  yet  stir  the  latent  scorn 

Of  that  rough  manhood  such  hard  natures  know. 

Waked  from  her  trance,  with  wandering  eyes  and  slow 

The  Queen  looked  round,  but  dimly  conscious  yet, 

Until  at  last  her  faltering  glance  was  set 

On  Doracles,  to  whom — that  he  might  see 

How  a  soft  ruth  to  love's  intensity 

Had  strangely  grown — she  laid  her  deep  heart  bare : 

Then,  with  a  sweet  but  nobly  queen-like  air, 

She  said,  "O  Doracles,  in  just  return 

For  all  this  love  and  pity,  which  did  yearn 

To  lift  thee  fallen,  and  to  find  thee,  lost, 

And  slowly  sickening  underneath  the  frost 

Of  bleak  despair,  I  well  might  ask  of  thee 

Thy  heart,  with  all  its  rarest  freight  in  fee, 

Save  that  I  feel  my  virgin  fame  and  life 

Must  count  as  pure,  when  thou  hast  made  me  wife, 

Though  but  a  wife  in  state  and  name  alone. 

Behold,  O  chief!  I  proffer,  too,  my  throne, 

Not  as  thy  freedom's  sole  condition  given, 

But  that  men's  eyes  and  scornful  thoughts  be  driven 

Away  from  what  in  me  may  seem  as  ill, 

If — if — perchance,  thou  shouldst  reject  me  still." 

At  which  hard  word  she  droops  her  head,  and  sighs, 

While  patient  tears  bedew  her  downcast  eyes. 

Now,  with  sly  semblance  of  a  soul  at  ease, 

Her  liberal  proffer  crafty  Doracles 

Freely  embraced !     They  passed  the  prison-bound, 

And  that  same  day  with  silver-ringing  sound 

Of  trump  and  cymbal,  the  state  heralds  cried 

Abroad  through  all  the  city,  far  and  wide, 


DAPHLES.  21 

The  Queen's  vast  pardon  :  whereupon  her  court, — 

Nobles  and  dames, — each  quaintly  gorgeous  sport, 

Known  in  the  old  time,  bold  or  debonair, 

With  feasts,  and  mimic  strifes,  and  pageants  rare, 

Did  hold  in  honor  of  their  sovereign's  choice; 

A  choice  none'there  would  question  !     Not  a  voice, 

Gentle  or  simple,  but  was  raised  to  bless, 

And  pray  the  kindly  gods  for  happiness 

And   peace   on   both  !       Meanwhile   the   thrall   made 

king, 

Albeit  a  secret  anger  still  would  wring 
His  thankless  soul,  in  princely  fashion  took 
The  general  homage,  nor  by  word  or  look 
Betrayed  the  festering  consciousness  within: 
So  gracious  seemed  he,  Daphles'  hopes  begin 
To  wake,  and  whisper  fond,  sweet,  foolish  words 
Close  to  her  heart,  that  flutters  like  a  bird's 
Wooed  in  the  spring-dawn :   yet,  alas !  alas ! 
For  joy  that  dies,  and  dreamy  hopes  that  pass 
To  nothingness !     In  'midst  of  this,  her  trust, 
Came  a  swift  blow  which  smote  her  to  the  dust ; 
News  that  her  ingrate  love  had  basely  fled, 
Whither  none  knew.     Scarce  had  this  shaft  been  sped 
From  fate's  unerring  bow,  than  swift  again 
Hurtled  a  second  steeped  in  poisoned  pain ; 
For  now  the  whole  dark  truth  came  sternly  out : 
Leagued  with  her  bitterest  foes,  a  savage  rout 
Of  mountain  robbers  o'er  the  frontier-land, 
He  unto  whom  she  proffered  heart  and  hand, 
Kingdom  and  crown,  had  bared  his  treacherous  blade, 
And  of  the  great  and  just  gods  unafraid, 
Upreared  his  standard  'neath  the  blood-red  star, 
And  raised  once  more  the  incarnate  curse  of  war ! 


22  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

So  from  that  day  all  gladness  left  the  heart 

Of  broken  Daphles;  she  would  muse  apart 

From  court  and  friends,  her  once  blithe  footsteps  slow, 

Her  once  proud  head  bow'd  down,  and  such  wild  woe 

Couched  in  the  clouded  depths  of  mournful  eyes 

That  few  could  mark  her  misery  but  with  sighs 

Deep  almost  as  her  own.     At  last,  she  wrote 

(For  still  her  soul  hailed,  watery  and  remote. 

One  beam  of  hope)  a  missive  tender-sweet, 

Charmed  with  such  pathos,  to  her  delicate  feet 

It  might  have  lured  a  spirit,  nigh  to  death, 

And  straight  imbued  with  warm  compassionate  breath 

A  heart  as  cold  as  spires  of  Arctic  ice ! 

Ah,  futile  hope !     Ah,  fond  and  vain  device  ! 

Not  all  the  pleading  eloquence  of  wrong, 

Veiling  its  wounds,  and  golden-soft  as  song 

Trilled  by  the  brown  Sicilian  nightingales, 

In  dusky  nooks  of  melancholy  vales, 

Could  melt  the  granite  will  of  Doracles. 

Each  tender  line  she  sent  him  did  but  tease 

And  sting  his  obdurate  temper  into  hate, 

As  if  the  deep  harmonious  terms  that  wait 

On  truest  love,  were  wasp-like,  poisoned  things : 

Her  timorous  hints,  her  sweet  imaginings, 

Far  thoughts,  and  dreams  evanishing,  but  high, 

Filled  with  the  maiden  dews  of  sanctity, 

He  crushed,  as  one  might  crush  in  maddened  hours 

The  fairest  of  the  sisterhood  of  flowers; 

No  further  answer  made  he  than  could  be 

Couched  in  brief  terms  of  cold  discourtesy, 

Holding  all  love — the  noblest  love  on  earth — 

Of  lesser  moment  than  an  insect's  birth, 


DAPHLES. 

Buzzing  its  life  out  'twixt  the  dawn  and  dark. 

That  letter  stifled  the  last  healthful  spark 

Of  the  Queen's  flickering  reason,  turned  her  wit 

To  wild  and  errant  courses,  sadly  lit 

By  wandering  stars,  and  orbs  of  fantasy. 

Deeming  that  she  full  soon  must  sink  and  die, 

Daphles,  still  true  to  that  one  dominant  thought 

And  firm  affection  which  such  ill  had  brought, 

Summoned  her  learned  scribes  and  bade  them  draw 

After  strict  form  and  precedents  of  law, 

Her  solemn  testament;  whereby  she  gave 

Her  throne  to  Doracles,  whene'er  the  grave 

Closed  o'er  her  broken  heart  and  humbled  head. 

But  now  her  chiefs  and  nobles,  hard  bestead 

By  circumstance,  and  dreading  much  lest  he, 

The  renegade,  and  rebel,  who  did  flee 

From  love  to  league  with  license,  yet  should  sway 

The  honored  Argive  sceptre,  on  a  day 

Called  forth  to  solemn  council  and  debate 

Lords,  liegemen,  ministers,  to  save  the  state 

From  threatened  tyranny  and  upstart  rule : 

Thereto  the  wan  Queen,  powerless  now  to  school 

Features  or  mind  to  subjugation  meet, 

Came  weakly  tottering;  in  her  lofty  seat 

She  sank  bewildered,  listless;  all  could  mark 

Beneath  her  languid  eyes  the  hollows  dark, 

And — save  that  sometimes  as  she  slowly  turned 

Her  wasted  form,  the  fires  of  fever  burned, 

Death's  prescient  blazon,  on  each  sunken  cheek — 

Her  face  was  pallid  as  a  cold  white  streak 

Of  wintry  moonlight  on  Siberian  snows; 

Her  quivering  mouth  and  chill  contracted  brows 


23 


24  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Bespoke  an  inward  torture,  while  frouii  all 
The  shrewd  debate  within  that  council  hall 
Her  dim  thoughts  wandered  vaguely,  lost  and  dumb. 
But  when  her  pitying  maidens  round  her  come, 
And  gently  strive  on  her  drooped  head  to  place 
The  self-same  laurel  garland  which  did  grace 
Her  warm,  white  temples  on  that  morn  of  strife 
And  woeful  victory,  her  sick  brain  seemed  rife 
Once  more  with  memories;  in  her  hand  she  pressed 
The  half-dead  wreath,  and  o'er  her  flowing  vest 
Strewed  the  plucked  leaves  those  aimless  fingers  tore 
Unwittingly ;  which  on  the  marble  floor, 
Down  fluttering,  one  by  one,  lay  blurred  and  dead, 
Like  the  sere  hopes  her  withered  heart  had  shed, 
Smitten  of  love ;  for  now  she  touched  the  close 
Of  the  soul's  dreary  autumn,  and  the  snows 
Of  winter  soon  would  clasp  her  eyelids  cold. 
Yea,  soon,  too  soon !  for  while  her  fingers  fold 
The  garland  loosely,  and  in  fitful  grief 
She  still  would  strip  the  circlet  leaf  by  leaf, 
Till  now  one-half  the  wreath  is  plucked  and  bare, 
She  lifts  her  dim  eyes,  hearkening,  as  though  'ware 
Of  mystic  voices  calling  on  her  name ; 
Therewith  her  cheek,  whence  the  quick  fevered  flame 
Had  quite  pulsed  out,  with  one  last  quiver,  she 
Drops  on  the  cushioned  dais  passively ; 
For   death,  more   kind    than   love,  hath   brought  her 
peace. 

Long  was  it  ere  her  stricken  realm  could  cease 
To  mourn  for  Daphles ;  yet  her  burial  rites, 
With  all  their  mournful  pomp,  their  sombre  sights 


DAPHLES.  25 

Funereal,  scarce  were  passed,  when  her  last  Will, 
Despite  its  humbling  terms  which  rankled  still 
In  all  men's  minds,  her  faithful  courtiers  sent, 
With  news  of  that  most  sudden,  sad  event 
Which  made  him  king,  to  restless  Doracles. 
What  recked  he  then  that  to  its  bitterest  lees 
A  pure  young  soul  had  quaffed  of  misery's  cup, 
And  after,  death's?  "  My  star,"  he  thought,  "flames  up, 
Fronting  the  heights  of  empire!     All  is  well !" 
Thereon,  impelled  by  keen  desire  to  dwell 
In  his  new  realm,  with  reckless  haste  he  rode 
From  town  to  town,  till  now  the  grand  abode, 
The  palace  of  the  royal  Argive  race, 
Did  rise  before  him  in  its  lofty  place, 
O'erlooking  leagues  of  golden  fields  and  streams, 
Fair  hills  and  shadowy  vineyards,  by  great  teams 
Of  laboring  oxen  rifled  morn  by  morn, 
Till  the  bared  tremulous  branches  swung  forlorn 
'Gainst  the  red  flush  of  autumn's  sunset  sky. 
Housed  with  rich  state  therein,  full  regally 
The  king  his  sovereign  life  and  course  began, 
Striving  at  one  swift  bound  to  reach  the  van 
Of  princely  fame;  his  rare  magnificence 
Of  feasts,  shows,  pageants,  and  high  splendors,  whence 
The  wondering  guests  all  dazzled  went  their  way, 
Grew  to  a  world-wide  proverb  for  display 
And  costly  lavishness.     Yet  one  there  was 
O'er  whose  gray  head  these  days  of  pomp  did  pass 
Like  purpling  shadows  o'er  the  faded  grass : 
Wit  touched  him  not  to  smiles,  gay  music's  flow 
Fell  powerless  on  his  closed  heart's  secret  woe, 
While  at  their  feasts  silent  he  sat,  and  grim. 
Ofttimes  the  king  a  cold  glance  cast  on  him, 

3 


26  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

As  one  who  marred  their  mirthful  revelry, 
And  in  the  boisterous  spring-tide  of  their  glee 
Rose  like  a  boding  phantom  !     More  and  more 
He  felt  a  vague,  dim  trouble  at  the  core 
Of  his  rude  nature  stirred,  whene'er  he  saw 
Phorbas  draw  near;  something  akin  to  awe, 
If  not  to  dread,  for  this  old  man  did  stand 
Chiefest  of  Daphles'  mourners  in  her  land, 
As  chief  of  her  life's  friends,,  ere  that  black  doom 
Stole  from  her  heart  its  joy,  her  cheek  its  bloom. 

Just  where  the  mellowed  rays  of  noonday  light 

Streamed  through  the  curtained  gloom,  obscurely  bright. 

Which  wrapped  the  great  art-galleries  richly  round, 

There  hung,  'mid  many  a  stately  portrait,  bound 

In  frames  of  costly  ivory,  carved  and  wrought, 

A  picture,  which  the  king's  eyes  oft  had  sought 

With  anxious  wonder;   for  day  following  day 

Would  Phorbas,  mutely  sorrowing,  make  delay 

Going  or  coming  from  the  council-hall 

To  view  that  muffled  mystery  on  the  wall. 

Over  it  flowed  a  veil  of  silvery  hue, 

With  here  and  there  fine  threds  of  gold  shot  through 

The  delicate  woof;  and  whoso  chanced  to  turn 

A  glance  thereon,  would  feel  his  spirit  burn 

To  pierce  the  jealous  veil  whose  folds  might  hide 

Some  priceless  marvel.     Now,  at  high  noontide 

Of  one  calm  autumn  day,  the  king  again 

Met  Phorbas — his  worn  features  drawn  with  .pain, 

And  in  his  eyes  the  sharp  salt-rheum  of  age — 

Still  poring  on  the  picture  !     "  Thou  a  sage !" 

Sneered  Doracles,  "yet  idly  bent,  forsooth, 

On  vaporing  fancies?"  Then,  more  harsh,  "The  truth! 


DAPHLES.  27 

The  truth,  old  man !    What  strong  spell  drags  thee  here  ? 

(Some  charm,  methinks,  'twixt  passion  and  despair:) 

Morn  after  morn,  forcing  thine  eyes  to  stray 

O'er  yon  blank  mystery?     Pry  thee,  Phorbas,  say 

What  image  lurks  beneath  that  glimmering  shroud  ? 

Perchance  the  last  king's?     Well !  am  I  less  proud 

And  princely  wise  than  he  ?     Or  art  thou  bold 

To  deem  me  all  unworthy  to  behold 

My  brave  forerunner?"     Thereupon  he  knit 

His  rugged  brows,  the  while  his  soul  was  lit 

To  keen,  impatient  wrath.     With  trembling  hands — 

But  not  for  fear — Phorbas  unloosed  the  bands, 

Studded  with  diamond  points,  which  clasped  the  veil 

Close  to  its  place.     The  startled  prince  grew  pale, 

As  there,  in  all  her  fresh  young  grace,  did  shine 

The  face  of  Daphles,  with  a  smile  divine, 

Into  arch  dimples  rippling  joyfully  ! 

Some  faintly-pensive  memory  seemed  to  vie 

With  deeper  feelings,  in  the  low,  quick  tone 

Wherewith  the  king  spake,  whispering  to  his  own 

Half- wakened  heart, — "Certes,  it  could  not  be, 

That  she,  who  owned  the  glorious  face  I  see, 

Bright  with  all  brightness  of  a  young  delight, 

Yet  pined  and  withered  'neath  the  fatal  night 

Of  starless  grief!"     To  which,  "  Thy  pardon,  sire," 

The  old  man  said,  "but  ere  my  life's  low  fire 

Hath  quite  gone  out,  I  fain  would  free  my  soul 

Of  that  which  long  hath  borne  me  care  and  dole ; 

So,  sovereign  lord,  list  to  the  tale  I  tell !" 

And  therewithal  did  Phorbas  deem  it  well 

To  show  how  Daphles'  darkened  life  did  wane ; 

How  love,  first  touched  by  doubt,  soon  changed  to  pain, 


2g  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

And,  last,  blank  desolation,  whose  wild  stress 
Wrecked  and  made  bare  her  perfect  loveliness, 
O'erwhelming  wit  with  beauty.     "Still,"  said  he, 
"  O  sire  !  to  her  last  hour  most  tenderly 
She  spake  of  thee,  her  twilight  reason  set 
On  the  sole  thought,  'My  love  may  love  me  yet ; 
For  man' s  love  comes  with  knowledge,  so  I  deem, 
Slow-hearted  man' s  f  Ah,  heaven  !  she  could  not  dream, 
But  thy  name  filled  her  dreams.     When  madness  stole 
Like  a  dread  mist  about  her,  and  ter  soul, 

Wound  in  its  viewless  cerement-folds  accursed " 

"  Madness  !"  the  king  cried  in  a  sharp  outburst 

Of  wild  amazement :   "madness  !  /  have  known 

The  mad  impatience  of  a  will  o'ergrown, 

When  sternly  thwarted  in  its  fiery  zeal, 

But  dreamed  not  how  these  fairy  creatures  feel, 

These  soft,  frail-natured  women,  if,  perchance, 

Love  turn  on  them  a  cold  or  lukewarm  glance 

Of  brief  denial !"     Then  the  impatient  red, 

In  a  swift  flood,— but  not  of  anger,— spread 

O'er  the  king's  face;  convulsed  it  seemed,  and  stern. 

But  when  from  garrulous  Phorbas  he  did  learn 

How  the  Queen's  laurel  wreath  half  bare  became, 

The  hot  blood  ebbed,  and  o'er  its  waning  flame 

Coursed  the  first  tear  his  warrior-soul  had  shed. 

Nor  could  he  rouse  again  the  lustihead 

Of  ruder  thoughts,  but,  thickly  muttering,  laid 

On  the  fair  portrait  of  the  sovereign  maid 

A  reverent  hand ;  from  'midst  the  painted  dome 

Of  the  great  gallery  forth  he  bore  it  home 

Unto  the  secret  chamber  of  his  rest ; 

There  next  his  couch  he  placed  the  beauteous  guest ; 


DAPHLES. 


2Q 


There  feasted  on  its  sweetness ;  and  since  naught 

Of  public  import  now  did  claim  his  thought, 

No  fierce  war  threatened,  no  shrewd  treaties  pressed, 

Strangely  the  picture  mastered  him ;  it  grew, 

As  days,  then  weeks,  and  seasons,  o'er  him  flew, 

A  part,  an  inmost  essence  of  all  life, 

Which  touched  to  joy  or  thrilled  to  shuddering  strife 

The  soul's  deep-seated  issues:   yet,  at  last, 

Stronger  the  fierce  strife  waxed  ;  the  bliss  was  passed  ; 

And,  wheresoe'er  the  king  went,  night  or  day, 

One  haunting  phantom  barred  his  doomed  way  ! 

But  ere  he  reached  the  worst  wild  stage  of  woe, 
Through  many  a  change  of  passion,  swift  or  slow, 
The  king  passed  downward,  nearing  treacherous  death ; 
And  thus  it  happed,  our  old-world  legend  saith : 

The  more  he  gazed  on  Daphles'  blooming  face, 
All  flushed  with  happy  youth  and  Hebe  grace, 
The  more  her  marvelous  image  seemed  alive ; 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  the  warm  blood  strive, 
In  ruddier  tide,  with  conscious  hues  to  dye 
Her  lovely  brow  and  swanlike  neck,  or  vie 
With  Syrian  roses  on  her  cheeks  of  flame ; 
The  more  he  gazed,  the  more  her  lips  became 
Instinct  with  timorous  motion,  till  a  sigh, 
New-born  of  honeyed  love  unwittingly, 
Seemed  hovering  like  a  murmurous  fairy-bee 
About  their  rich,  half-parted  comeliness  : 
What  slight  breath  softly  stirs  the  truant  tress, 
Which  like  a  waif  of  sunset  light  did  rest 
In  wandering  golden  lustre  on  her  breast  ? 


3o  LEGENDS  AND   L  YRICS. 

And  what  dear  thought  her  bosom  graciously 

Heaves  into  gentle  billows,  like  a  sea 

Moon-kissed,  and  whispering?     Thus  the  king  would 

task 

Long  hours  with  doting  questions,  when  the  mask 
Of  dull  state  forms  and  ceremonial  play 
With  wearied  brain  and  hand  was  cast  away, 
And  he  a  dead  maid's  crafty  image  turned 
To  breathing  life,  and  blissful  love  that  burned 
From  her  wild  pulses  and  fond  heart  to  his, 
And  on  her  mouth  he  pressed  a  bridegroom  kiss. 

Then  the  sweet  spell  was  broken ;  conscience  spoke, 

And  in  her  burning  depths  pale  memory  woke. 

Even  in  that  gentle  shape  his  cold  self-will 

Had  strangely  turned,  and  wrought  him  direful  ill ; 

Distempered,  moody,  sometimes  nigh  distraught 

With  ceaseless  pressure  of  one  harrowing  thought, 

He  grew,  and  hapless  thrills  of  lonely  pain ; 

Her  picture,  imaged  on  his  heart  and  brain, 

Ruled  all  his  tides  of  being,  as  the  moon 

Draws  changeful  seas ;  now  in  a  clear  high  noon 

Of  memories  bitter-sweet  his  soul  would  swim, 

Anon  to  sink  in  turbulent  gulfs  and  dim 

Of  wild  regret,  or  as  the  dead  to  lie 

Locked  in  a  mute,  life-withering  lethargy. 

Creator  sweet  of  all  his  fortunes  high, 

Oh,  that  in  Hades  she  could  hear  his  cry 

Remorseful,  and  come  back  in  pitying  guise 

To  ease  his  grief  and  calm  his  tortured  sighs  ! 

A  thousand,  thousand  times  this  wild  desire 

Would  wake,  and  surge  through  all  his  veins  like  fire; 


DAPHLES.  31 

Followed,  alas,  too  soon,  by  such  deep  sense 

Of  powerless  will,  and  mortal  impotence, 

As  in  red  hurry  up  from  soul  to  cheeks 

Runs  rioting,  and  ever  harshly  seeks 

To  drag  them  into  gaunt,  gray  lines  of  care  ! 

Months  sped  eventless,  with  his  dark  despair 

Grown  darker ;  till,  one  sad  November  morn, 

Set  to  the  rhythmic  wail  of  winds  forlorn, 

They  found,  just  where  the  morning's  shadowy  gloom 

Had  gathered  deepest  in  the  prince's  room, 

His  prostrate  body,  cold,  and  turned  in  part 

Upwards, — the  blade's  hilt  glittering  o'er  his  heart, 

Where  his  own  mad  right  arm  had  sent  it  home. 

Beneath  him,  in  soft-tinted,  fadeless  bloom, 

Beneath  him  smiled  the  portrait  he  had  torn 

Madly  from  off  the  wall,  his  wan  face  borne 

Next  the  clear  brightness  of  that  lifelike  one 

For  whose  fair  sake  he  lay,  at  last,  undone ; 

But  whose  glad  smile,  could  she  have  lived  that  hour, 

Had  waned  and  withered  inward,  like  a  flower 

The  storm-wind  blights,  at  stern  revenge,  like  this, 

Of  love's  cold  scorn  and  passion's  unpaid  kiss. 


32  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


RENEWED. 

WELCOME,  rippling  sunshine  ! 

Welcome,  joyous  air ! 
Like  a  demon  shadow 

Flies  the  gaunt  despair  ! 
Heaven,  through  heights  of  happy  calm, 

Its  heart  of  hearts  uncloses, 
To  win  earth's  answering  love  in  balm, 
Her  blushing  thanks — in  roses ! 

Voices  from  the  pine-grove, 

Where  the  pheasant's  drumming, 
Voices  from  the  ferny  hills 

Alive  with  insect  humming  ; 
Voices  low  and  sweet 

From  the  far-off  stream, 
Where  two  rivulets  meet 

With  the  murmur  of  a  dream  ; 
Voices  loud  and  free 
From  every  bush  and  tree, 

Of  sportive  forest  bards  outpouring  songs  of  gladness; 
But  over  them  still 
With  its  passionate  trill, 
The  mock-bird's  jocund  madness  ! 

Deep  down  the  swampy  brake 
Even  the  poison-snake, 


RENEWED.  33 

Uncoiled,  and  basking  in  the  noontide  splendor, 
May  feel,  perchance,  on  this  auspicious  day 
(All  dark  clouds  rolled  away), 
Thorough  his  stagnant  blood, 
Warmed  by  the  sunlight  flood, 
A  faint,  far  sense, 
Coming  he  knows  not  whence, 
Of  dim  intelligence, — 
The  thinnest  conscious  thrill  that  human  is,  and  tender ! 


Look  !  where  on  luminous  wing 

The  ether's  stately  king, 
The  lone  sea-eagle,  circling  proud  and  slow, 
Towers  in  the  sapphire  glow ; 

From  out  whose  dazzling  beam, 

His  resonant  scream, 

Heard  even  here, — a  note  of  fierce  desire, — 
Hushes  to  silent  awe  the  sylvan  choir, 
Till  bird  and  note  in  airy  deeps  updrawn 
Are  melting  toward  the  dawn  ! 

And  hear  !   O  !  hear  ! 
No  longer  wildly  terrible  and  drear, 
But  as  if  merry  pulses  timed  their  beating, 

The  frolic  sea-waves  near, 
Dancing  along  like  happy  maidens  playing 
When  blithe  love  goes  "a-Maying," 
And  wreaking  on  the  shore  their  panting  blisses 
In  coy,  impulsive  kisses ; 

Whilst  he — poor  Dullard — cannot  catch  nor  hold  them, 
Nor  in  his  massive,  earthen  arms  enfold  them, 
The  laughing  virgin  waves,  so  archly,  swiftly  fleeting ! 


34  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

This  subtle  atmosphere, 

So  magically  clear, 
Melts,  as  it  were,  upon  my  eager  lip ; 
From  some  invisible  goblet  of  delight 

Idly  I  sip  and  sip 
A  wine  so  warm  and  golden 
(From  some  enchanted  bin  the  wine  was  stolen), 

A  wine  so  sweet  and  rare, 

Methinks  a  nobler  birth 

Illuminates  the  earth, 
And  in  my  heart  I  hear  a  fairy  singing ; 
Yet  well  I  know  'tis  but  my  soul  renew' d, 

Reborn  and  bright, 

From  grief  and  grief's  malignant  solitude  ! 
Yet  well  I  know,  Joy  is  the  Ganymede, 
Who  in  my  yearning  need, 
Turns  to  a  cordial  rich  the  balmy  air ; 
And  'tis  but  Hope's,  divinest  Hope's  return, 
Which  makes  my  inmost  spirit  throb  and  burn, 

And  Hope's  triumphant  song, 

So  sweet  and  strong, 
That  all  creation  seems  with  that  weird  music  ringing  ! 


KRISHNA  AND  HIS   THREE  HANDMAIDENS. 


35 


KRISHNA  AND   HIS  THREE    HANDMAIDENS. 

AND  where  he  sat  beneath  the  mystic  stars, 

Nigh  the  twin  founts  of  Immortality, 

That  feed  fair  channels  of  the  Stream  of  Trance, — 

To  Krishna  once  his  three  handmaidens  came, 

Asking  a  boon  :    "  O  king  !  O  lord  !"  they  said, 

"  Test  thou  thy  servants'  wisdom;  long  in  dreams, 

Born  of  the  waters  of  thy  Stream  of  Trance, 

Have  we,  thy  fond  handmaidens,  wandered  free, 

And  lapped  in  airiest  wreaths  of  fantasy ; 

Now  would  we,  viewless,  bearing  each  some  gift 

From  thee,  our  father,  seek  the  world  of  man, 

The  world  of  man,  and  pain,  which  whoso  leaves 

Better  or  brighter,  for  thy  gift  bestowed 

Most  worthily,  shall  claim  thy  just  reward, 

The  Crown  of  Wisdom  !"     Krishna  heard,  and  gave 

To  each  one  tiny  drop  of  diamond  dew, 

Drawn  from  the  founts  that  feed  the  Stream  of  Trance, 

Wherewith,  on  waftage  of  miraculous  winds, 

Breathing  full  south,  they  sought  the  world  of  man, 

The  world  of  man  and  pain  that  shrank  in  drought, 

Palsied  and  withered,  like  an  old  man's  face 

Death-smitten. 

And  the  first  handmaiden  saw 
A  monarch's  fountain  sparkling  in  the  waste, 
Glowing  and  fresh,  though  all  the  land  was  sick, 
Gasping  for  rain,  and  famished  thousands  died: 


36  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

"O  brave,"  she  said,  "O  beautiful  bright  waves! 
Like  calls  to  like ;"  and  so  her  dewdrop  glanced, 
And  glittered  downward  as  a  fairy  star 
Loosed  from  a  tress  of  Cassiopeia's  hair, 
Down  to  the  glorious  fountain  of  the  king. 

Over  the  passionless  bosom  of  the  sea, 

The  Indian  Sea,  cerulean,  crystal-clear, 

And  calm,  the  second  handmaid,  hovering,  viewed — 

Far  through  the  tangled  sea-weed  and  cool  tides 

Pulsing  'twixt  coral  branches — the  wide  lips 

Of  purpling  shells  that  yearned  to  clasp  a  pearl : 

So  where  the  oyster,  blindly  reared,  awaits 

Its  priceless  soul — she  lets  the  dewdrop  fall, 

Thenceforth  to  grow  a  jewel  fit  for  courts, 

And  shine  on  swanlike  necks  of  haughty  queens ! 

But  Krishna's  third  handmaiden  scarce  had  felt 

The  fume  from  parched  plains  that  made  the  air 

As  one  vast  caldron  of  invisible  fire, 

Than  casting  downward  pitiful  eyes,  she  saw, 

Crouched  in  the  brazen  cere  of  that  red  heat, 

A  tiny  bird — a  poor,  weak,  suffering  thing — 

(Its   bright    eyes   glazed,    its    limbs   convulsed   and 

prone), 

Dying  of  thirst  in  torture :    "Ah,  kind  Lord 
Krishna,"  his  handmaid  murmured,  "speed  thy  gift, 
Best  yielded  here,  to  soothe,  perchance  to  save, 
The  lowliest  mortal  creature  cursed  with  pain  !" 
Gently  she  shook  the  dewdrop  from  her  palm 
Into  the  silent  throat  that  thirst  had  sealed, 
Soon  silent,  sealed  no  more, — for,  lo  !   the  bird 
Fluttered,  arose,  was  strengthened,  and  through  calms 


UNDER    THE   PINE.  37 

Of  happy  ether,  echoing  fair  and  far, 
Rang  the  charmed  music  of  the  nightingale. 

And  so,  where  crowned  beneath  the  mystic  stars, 
Nigh  the  twin  founts  of  Immortality, 
Krishna,  the  father,  saw  what  ruth  was  hers, 
And,  smiling,  to  his  wise  handmaiden's  rule 
Gave  the  great  storm-clouds  and  the  mists  of  heaven, 
Till  at  her  voice  the  mighty  vapors  rolled 
Up  from  the  mountain-gorges,  and  the  seas, 
And  cloud-land  darkened,  and  the  grateful  rain, 
Burdened  with  benedictions,  rushed  and  foamed 
Down  the  hot  channels,  and  the  foliaged  hills, 
And  the  frayed  lips,  and  languid  limbs  of  flowers ; 
And  all  the  woodlands  laughed,  and  earth  was  glad  ! 


UNDER   THE   PINE. 

TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    HENRY    TIMROD. 

THE  same  majestic  Pine  is  lifted  high 

Against  the  twilight  sky, 
The  same  low,  melancholy  music  grieves 

Amid  the  topmost  leaves, 
As  when  I  watched,  and  mused,  and  dreamt  with  him, 

Beneath  these  shadows  dim. 

O  Tree  !  hast  thou  no  memory  at  thy  core 
Of  one  who  comes  no  more  ? 
4 


3  8  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

No  yearning  memory  of  those  scenes  that  were 

So  richly  calm  and  fair, 
When  the  last  rays  of  sunset,  shimmering  down, 

Flashed  like  a  royal  crown  ? 

And  he,  with  hand  outstretched  and  eyes  ablaze, 
Looked  forth  with  burning  gaze, 

And  seemed  to  drink  the  sunset  like  strong  wine, 
Or,  hushed  in  trance  divine, 

Hailed  the  first  shy  and  tremulous  gLnce  from  far 
Of  Evening's  virgin  star? 

O  Tree  !  against  thy  mighty  trunk  he  laid 

His  weary  head  ;  thy  shade 
Stole  o'er  him  like  the  first  cool  spell  of  sleep  : 

It  brought  a  peace  so  deep 
The  unquiet  passion  died  from  out  his  eyes, 

As  lightning  from  stilled  skies. 

And  in  that  calm  he  loved  to  rest,  and  hear 

The  soft  wind-angels,  clear 
And  sweet,  among  the  uppermost  branches  sighing 

Voices  he  heard  replying 
(Or  so  he  dreamed)  far  up  the  mystic  height, 

And  pinions  rustling  light. 

O  Tree  !  have  not  his  poet- touch,  his  dreams 

So  full  of  heavenly  gleams, 
Wrought  through  the  folded  dullness  of  thy  bark, 

And  all  thy  nature  dark 
Stirred  to  slow  throbbings,  and  the  fluttering  fire 

Of  faint,  unknown  desire  ? 


UNDER    THE   PINE.  39 

At  least  to  me  there  sweeps  no  rugged  ring 

That  girds  the  forest-king, 
No  immemorial  stain,  or  awful  rent 

(The  mark  of  tempests  spent), 
No  delicate  leaf,  no  lithe  bough,  vine-o'ergrown, 

No  distant,  flickering  cone, 

But  speaks  of  him,  and  seems  to  bring  once  more 

The  joy,  the  love  of  yore  ; 
But  most  when  breathed  from  out  the  sunset-land 

The  sunset  airs  are  bland, 
That  blow  between  the  twilight  and  the  night, 

Ere  yet  the  stars  are  bright ; 

For  then  that  quiet  eve  comes  back  to  me, 

When,  deeply,  thrillingly, 
He  spake  of  lofty  hopes  which  vanquish  Death  ; 

And  on  his  mortal  breath 
A  language  of  immortal  meanings  hung, 

That  fired  his  heart  and  tongue. 

For  then  unearthly  breezes  stir  and  sigh, 

Murmuring,  "Look  up  !   'tis  I : 
Thy  friend  is  near  thee !     Ah,  thou  canst  not  see  !" 

And  through  the  sacred  Tree 
Passes  what  seems  a  wild  and  sentient  thrill — 

Passes,  and  all  is  still ! — 

Still  as  the  grave  which  holds  his  tranquil  form, 

Hushed  after  many  a  storm, — 
Still  as  the  calm  that  crowns  his  marble  brow, 

No  pain  can  wrinkle  now, — 
Still  as  the  peace — pathetic  peace  of  God — 

That  wraps  the  holy  sod, 


>  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Where  every  flower  from  our  dead  minstrel's  dust 
Should  bloom,  a  type  of  trust, — 

That  faith  which  waxed  to  wings  of  heavenward  might 
To  bear  his  soul  from  night, — 

That  faith,  dear  Christ !   whereby  we  pray  to  meet 
His  spirit  at  God's  feet ! 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    SOUTH    WIND. 

O  FRESH,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air, 
The  fairy  South  Wind  floateth  on  her  subtle  wings  of 

balm! 

And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss, 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 

Seems   yearning  upward   fondly   through  the  golden- 
crested  calm  ! 

From  the  distant  Tropic  strand, 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,  curling  round  the  palms  with  sweet,  faint 

undertune, 

From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers, 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 

The  happy  South  Wind    lingering   sweeps    the  royal 
blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 


A   DREAM  OF   THE   SOUTH   WIND.  41 

Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor  rare  and 

fine, 

And  a  Peace  more  pure  than  Sleep's 
Unto  dim,  half- conscious  deeps, 

Transports  me,   lulled  and  dreaming,  on  its   twilight 
tides  divine. 

Those  dreams  !  ah  me  !  the  splendor, 
So  mystical  and  tender, 
Wherewith   like   soft    heat-lightnings    they  gird    their 

meaning  round, 

And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 
With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a  rainbow  spray 
of  sound ! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 
Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her  dreary  din  and 

jars,— 

What  viewless  arms  caress  me  ? 
What  whispered  voices  bless  me, 

With  welcomes  dropping  dewlike  from  the  weird  and 
wondrous  stars  ? 

Alas  !  dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance    the    South  Wind   brought  me  on  her 

subtle  wings  of  balm, 
For  behold  !  its  spirit  flieth, 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 

And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull  and  soulless 
calm ! 

4* 


4 2  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


jr. 

AETHRA. 

IT  is  a  sweet  tradition,  with  a  soul 
Of  tenderest  pathos  !     Hearken,  love  !— for  all 
The  sacred  undercurrents  of  the  heart 
Thrill  to  its  cordial  music  : 

Once,  a  chief, 

Philantus,  king  of  Sparta,  left  the  stern 
And  bleak  defiles  of  his  unfruitful  land — 
Girt  by  a  band  of  eager  colonists — 
To  seek  new  homes  on  fair  Italian  plains. 
Apollo's  oracle  had  darkly  spoken  : 
"  Where' }  er from  cloudless  skies  a  plenteous  shower 
Outpours,  the  Fates  decree  that  ye  should  pause 
And  rear  your  household  Deities  /' '   Racked  by  doubt 
Philantus  traversed  with  his  faithful  band 
Full  many  a  bounteous  realm ;  but  still  defeat 
Darkened  his  banners,  and  the  strong-walled  towns 
His  desperate  sieges  grimly  laughed  to  scorn  ! 
Weighed  down  by  anxious  thoughts,  one  sultry  eve 
The  warrior — his  rude  helmet  cast  aside — 
Rested  his  weary  head  upon  the  lap 
Of  his  fair  wife,  who  loved  him  tenderly ; 
And  there  he  drank  a  generous  draught  of  sleep. 
She,  gazing  on  his  brow  all  worn  with  toil 
And  his  dark  locks,  which  pain  had  silvered  ovei 
With  glistening  touches  of  a  frosty  rime, 
Wept  on  the  sudden  bitterly ;  her  tears 
Fell  on  his  face,  and,  wondering,  he  awoke. 


IN  THE   All  ST.  43 

"O  blest  art  thou,  my  Aethra,  my  dear  sky" 

He  cried  exultant,  "from  whose  pitying  blue 

A  heart-rain  falls  to  fertilize  my  fate : 

Lo  !  the  deep  riddle's  solved — the  gods  spake  truth !" 

So  the  next  night  he  stormed  Tarentum,  took 
The  enemy's  host  at  vantage,  and  o'erthrew 
His  mightiest  captains.     Thence  with  kindly  sway 
He  ruled  those  pleasant  regions  he  had  won, — 
But  dearer  ever  than  his  rich  demesnes 
The  love  of  her  whose  gentle  tears  unlocked 
The  close-shut  mystery  of  the  Oracle  ! 


IN    THE    MIST. 

MORE  fearful  grows  the  hillside  way, 

The  gloom  no  softening  breeze  hath  kissed ! 
I  glance  far  upward  to  the  Day, 
But  scarce  can  catch  one  faltering  ray 
From  out  the  mist ! 

Ah,  heaven !  to  think  youth's  morning  prime, 

All  flushed  with  rose  and  amethyst, 
Its  tender  loves,  its  hopes  sublime, 
Should  shrink  to  this  dull  twilight-time 
Of  cold  and  mist ! 

No  tranquil  evening  Hour  descends, 

When  Peace  with  Memory  holds  her  tryst, 


44 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

But  Doubt  with  prescient  Terror  blends, 
And  Grief  her  mournful  curfew  sends 
Along  the  mist ! 

Weird  shapes  and  wild  stalk  strangely  by, 

And  say,  what  bodeful  voices  hissed 
Where  yonder  blasted  pine-trunks  lie  ? 
What  mystic  phantoms  shuddering  fly 
Far  down  the  mist  ? 

Dark  omens  all !  they  bid  me  stay, 

Unsheathe  resolve,  pause,  strive,  resist 
That  poisonous  Charm  which  haunts  my  way; 
Alas !  the  Fiend,  more  bold  than  they, 
Still  rules  the  mist  ! 

And  now  from  gulfs  of  turbulent  gloom 

A  torrent's  threatening  thunder; — list ! 
That  ravening  roar  !   that  hungry  boom  ! 
Down,  down  I  pass  to  meet  my  doom 
Within  the  mist ! 


THE  BONNY  BROWN  HAND. 

OH,    drearily,    how   drearily,   the  sombre    eve    comes 

down  ! 

And  wearily,  how  wearily,  the  seaward  breezes  blow  ! 
But  place  your  little  hand  in  mine — so  dainty,  yet  so 

brown  ! 

For  household  toil  hath  worn  away  its  rosy-tinted 
snow ; 


THE  BONNY  BROWN  JIAND.  45 

But  I  fold  it,  wife,  the  nearer, 
And  I  feel,  my  love,  'tis  dearer 
Than  all  dear  things  of  earth, 
As  I  watch  the  pensive  gloaming, 
And  my  wild  thoughts  cease  from  roaming, 
And  birdlike  furl  their  pinions  close  beside  our  peaceful 

hearth : 
Then  rest  your   little   hand    in    mine,   while    twilight 

shimmers  down, — 
That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that  hand  of  bonny 

brown, — 

The  hand  that  holds  an  honest  heart,  and  rules  a  happy 
hearth. 

Oh,  merrily,  how  merrily,  our  children's  voices  rise ! 

And  cheerily,  how  cheerily,  their  tiny  footsteps  fall  ! 
But,  hand,  you  must  not  stir  awhile,  for  there  our  nest 
ling  lies, 

Snug  in  the  cradle  at  your  side,  the  loveliest  far  of  all ; 
And  she  looks  so  arch  and  airy, 
So  softly  pure  a  fairy, — 
She  scarce  seems  bound  to  earth ; 
And  her  dimpled  mouth  keeps  smiling, 
As  at  some  child-fay's  beguiling, 
Who  flies  from  Ariel  realms  to  light  her  slumbers  on  the 

hearth. 
Ha,  little  hand,  you  yearn  to  move,  and  smooth  the 

bright  locks  down ! 
But,  little  hand,— but,  trembling  hand, —but,  hand  of 

bonny  brown, 

Stay,  stay  with  me !— she  will  not  flee,  our  birdling  on 
the  hearth. 


46  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Oh,  fittingly,  how  fittingly,  the  parlor-shadows  thrill, 
As  wittingly,  half  wittingly,  they  seem  to  pulse  and 

pass  ! 
And  solemn  sounds  are  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the 

haunted  hill, 

And  murmurs  of  a  ghostly  breath  from  out  the  grave 
yard  grass. 

Let  me  feel  your  glowing  fingers 
In  a  clasp  that  warms  and  lingers 
With  the  full,  fond  love  of  earth, 
Till  the  joy  of  love's  completeness 
In  this  flush  of  fireside  sweetness, 
Shall  brim  our  hearts  with  spirit-wine,  outpoured  beside 

the  hearth. 
So  steal  your  little  hand  in  mine,  while  twilight  falters 

down, — 
That  little  hand,  that  fervent  hand,  that  hand  of  bonny 

brown, — 

The  hand  which  points  the  path  to  heaven,  yet  makes 
a  heaven  of  earth. 


A   SUMMER   MOOD. 

"Now,  by  my  faith,  a  gruesome  MOOD,  for  summer !"— THOMAS 
HEYWARU  (1597)- 

AH  !  me,  for  evermore,  for  evermore 

These  human  hearts  of  ours  must  yearn  and  sigh, 
While  down  the  dells  and  up  the  murmurous  shore 

Nature  renews  her  immortality. 


A    SUMMER   MOOD.  47 

The  heavens  of  June  stretch  calm  and  bland  above, 
June  roses  blush  with  tints  of  Orient  skies, 

But  we,  by  graves  of  joy,  desire,  and  love, 

Mourn  in  a  world  which  breathes  of  Paradise  ! 

The  sunshine  mocks  the  tears  it  may  not  dry, 
The  breezes — tricksy  couriers  of  the  air, — 

Child-roisterers  winged,  and  lightly  fluttering  by — 
Blow  their  gay  trumpets  in  the  face  of  care ; 

And  bolder  winds,  the  deep  sky's  passionate  speech, 
Woven  into  rhythmic  raptures  of  desire, 

Or  fugues  of  mystic  victory,  sadly  reach 

Our  humbled  souls,  to  rack,  not  raise  them  higher ! 

The  field-birds  seem  to  twit  us  as  they  pass 

With  their  small  blisses,  piped  so  clear  and  loud ; 

The  cricket  triumphs  o'er  us  in  the  grass, 

And  the  lark,  glancing  beamlike  up  the  cloud, 

Sings  us  to  scorn  with  his  keen  rhapsodies : 

Small  things  and  great  unconscious  tauntings  bring 

To  edge  our  cares,  whilst  we,  the  proud  and  wise, 
Envy  the  insect's  joy,  the  birdling's  wing  ! 

And  thus  for  evermore,  till  time  shall  cease, 

Man's  soul  and  Nature's — each  a  separate  sphere — 

Revolves,  the  one  in  discord,  one  in  peace, 
And  who  shall  make  the  solemn  mystery  clear? 


48  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


MIDNIGHT. 

THE  Moon,  a  ghost  of  her  sweet  self, 
And  wading  through  a  watery  cloud 
(Which  wraps  her  lustre  like  a  shroud), 

Creeps  up  the  gray,  funereal  sky, 

Wearily !  how  wearily  ! 

The  Wind,  with  low,  bewildered  wail 
(A  homeless  spirit,  sadly  lost), 
Sweeps  shuddering  o'er  the  pallid  frost, 

And  faints  afar,  with  heart-sick  sigh, 
Drearily !  how  drearily ! 

And  now  a  deathly  stillness  falls 

On  Earth  and  Heaven,  save  when  the  shrill, 
Malignant  owl  o'er  heath  and  hill 

Smites  the  wan  silence  with  a  cry, 
Eerily!  how  eerily! 


SONNETS. 


SONNET. 


ADDRESSED  TO  WILLIAM  MORRIS,  AFTER  READING  HIS 
"L' ENVOY,"  IN  THE  THIRD  VOLUME  OF  HIS  "EARTHLY 
PARADISE." 


IN  some  fair  realm  unbound  of  time  or  space, 
Where  souls  of  all  dead  May-times,  with  their  play 
Of  blissful  winds,  soft  showers,  and  bird-notes  gay, 
Make  mystic  music  in  the  flower- bright  place, — 
Yea,  there,  O  poets  !*  radiant  face  to  face, 
Keen  heart  to  heart,  beneath  the  enchanted  day, 
Ye  met,  each  hearkening  to  the  other's  lay, 
With  rapt,  sweet  eyes,  and  thoughts  of  Old-World  grace: 
"Son,"  saith  the  elder  bard,  "when  thou  wert  born, 
So  yearned  toward  thine  my  spirit's  fervency, 
Flamelike  its  warmth  on  thy  deep  soul  was  shed ; 
Hence  the  ripe  blood  of  England's  lustier  morn 
Of  song  burns  through  thee ;  hence  alone  on  thee 
Fall  the  rich   bays  which   bloomed    round  Chaucer's 
head!" 


*  Chaucer  and  the  author  of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise.' 
5 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


SONNET. 

NOVEMBER. 

WITHIN  the  deep-blue  eyes  of  Heaven  a  haze 
Of  saddened  passion  dims  their  tender  light, 
For  that  her  fair  queen-child,  the  Summer  bright, 
Lies  a  wan  corse  amidst  her  mouldering  bays : 
The  sullen  Autumn  lifts  no  voice  of  praise 
To  herald  Winter's  cold  and  cruel  might, 
But  winds  foreboding  fill  the  desolate  night, 
And  dje  at  dawning  down  wild  woodland  ways : 
The  sovereign  sun  at  noonday  smileth  cold, 
As  through  a  shroud  he  hath  no  power  to  part, 
While  huddled  flocks  crouch  listless  round  their  fold; 
The  mock-bird's  dumb,  no  more  with  cheerful  dart 
Upsoars  the  lark  through  morning's  quivering  gold, 
And  dumb  or  dead,  methinks,  great  Nature's  heart ! 


SONNET. 

SYLVAN    MUSINGS. 
IN   MAY. 


COUCHED  in  cool  shadow,  girt  by  billowy  swells 
Of  foliage,  rippling  into  buds  and  flowers, 
Here  I  repose  o'erfanned  by  breezy  bowers, — 
Lulled  by  a  delicate  stream  whose  music  wells 


SONNETS.  51 

Tender  and  low  through  those  luxuriant  dells, 
Wherefrom  a  single  broad-leaved  chestnut  towers ; — 
Still  musing  in  the  long,  lush,  languid  hours, — 
As  in  a  dream  I  heard  the  tinkling  bells 
Of  far-off  kine,  glimpsed  through  the  verdurous  sheen, 
Blent  with  faint  bleatings  from  the  distant  croft, — 
The  bee.-throngs  murmurous  in  the  golden  fern, 
The  wood-doves  veiled  by  depths  of  flickering  green, — 
And  near  me,  where  the  wild  "  queen  fairies"*  burn, 
The  thrush's  bridal  passion,  warm  and  soft ! 


SONNET. 

THE    COTTAGE    ON    THE    HILL. 

ON  a  steep  hillside,  to  all  airs  that  blow, 

Open,  and  open  to  the  varying  sky, 

Our  cottage  homestead,  smiling  tranquilly, 

Catches  morn's  earliest  and  eve's  latest  glow ; 

Here,  far  from  worldly  strife,  and  pompous  show, 

The  peaceful  seasons  glide  serenely  by, 

Fulfill  their  missions,  and  as  calmly  die, 

As  waves  on  quiet  shores  when  winds  are  low. 

Fields,  lonely  paths,  the  one  small  glimmering  rill 

That  twinkles  like  a  wood-fay's  mirthful  eye, 

Under  moist  bay-leaves,  clouds  fantastical 

That  float  and  change  at  the  light  breeze's  will, — 

To  me,  thus  lapped  in  sylvan  luxury, 

Are  more  than  death  of  kings,  or  empires'  fall. 

#  "  Queen  fairies,"  the  name  given  popularly  to  an  exquisite  South 
ern  wild-flower. 


I  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

SONNET. 

POETS. 

SOME  thunder  on  the  heights  of  song,  their  race 
Godlike  in  power,  while  others  at  their  feet 
Are  breathing  measures  scarce  less  strong  and  sweet 
Than  those  which  peal  from  out  that  loftiest  place ; 
Meantime,  just  midway  on  the  mount,  his  face 
Fairer  than  April  heavens,  when  storms  retreat, 
And  on  their  edges  rain  and  sunshine  meet, 
Pipes  the  soft  lyrist  lays  of  tender  grace ; 
But  where  the  slopes  of  bright  Parnassus  sweep 
Near  to  the  common  ground,  a  various  throng 
Chant  lowlier  measures, — yet  each  tuneful  strain 
(The  silvery  minor  of  earth's  perfect  song) 
Blends  with  that  music  of  the  topmost  steep, 
O'er  whose  vast  realm  the  master  minstrels  reign  ! 


SONNET. 

THE    PHANTOM    BELLS. 


UPVEILED  in  yonder  dim  ethereal  sea, 
Its  airy  towers  the  work  of  phantom  spells, 
A  viewless  belfry  tolls  its  wizard  bells, 
Pealed  o'er  this  populous  earth  perpetually. 


SONNETS.  53 

Some  hear,  some  hear  them  not ;  but  aye  they  be 

Laden  with  one  strange  note  that  sinks  or  swells, 

Now  dread  as  doom,  now  gentle  as  farewells, — • 

Time's  dirge  borne  ever  toward  eternity. 

Each  hour  its  measured  breath  sobs  out  and  dies, 

While  the  bells  toll  its  requiem, — '  'Passing, past, " — 

The  sole  sad  burden  of  their  long  refrain. 

Still,  with  those  hours  each  pang,  each  pleasure  flies, 

Brief  sweet,  brief  bitter, — all  our  days  are  vain, 

Knolled  into  drear  forgetfulness  at  last. 


SONNET. 

BEHOLD  !  how  weirdly,  wonderfully  grand 
The  shapes  and  colors  of  yon  sunset  sky  ! 
Rare  isles  of  light  in  crimson  oceans  lie, 
Whose  airy  waves  seem  rippling,  bright  and  bland, 
Up  the  soft  slopes  of  many  a  mystic  strand, — 
While  luminous  capes,  and  mountains  towering  high 
In  golden  pomp  and  proud  regality, 
O'erlook  the  frontiers  of  that  fairy-land, — 
But  now,  in  transformations  swift  and  strange 
The  vision  changes  !     Castles,  glittering  fair, 
And  sapphire  battlements  of  loftiest  range 
Commingle  with  vast  spire  and  gorgeous  dome, 
Round  which  the  sunset  rolls  its  purpling  foam, 
Girding  this  transient  VENICE  of  the  air. 


54  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

SONNET. 

THE    LIFE-FOREST. 

IN  Springtime  of  our  youth  life's  purpling  shade, 

Foliage  and  fruit,  do  hang  so  thickly  round ; 

We  seem  glad  tenants  of  enchanted  ground, 

O'er  which  for  aye  dream-whispering  winds  have  played. 

Then  Summer  comes, — her  full-blown  charm  is  laid 

On  all  the  forest  aisles ;  from  bound  to  bound 

Floats  woodland  music,  and  the  silvery  sound 

Of  fountains  babbling  to  the  golden  glade. 

Next,  a  chill  breath,  the  breath  of  Autumn's  doom 

Strips  the  fair  sylvan  branches,  one  by  one, 

Till  the  bared  landscape  broadens  to  our  view ; 

Behind,  black  tree-boles  blot  the  twilight  blue, 

Before,  unfoliaged,  'bald  67  light  and  bloom, 

Our  pathway  darkens  towards  the  darkening  sun  ! 


SONNET. 

CLOUD  -FANTASI ES . 

WILD,  rapid,  dark,  like  dreams  of  threatening  doom, 
Low  cloud-racks  scud  before  the  level  wind ; 
Beneath  them,  the  bared  moorlands,  blank  and  blind, 
Stretch,  mournful,  through  pale  lengths  of  glimmering 

gloom ; 

Afar,  grand  mimic  of  the  sea-waves'  boom, 
Hollow,  yet  sweet,  as  if  a  Titan  pined 


SONNETS. 


55 


O'er  deathless  woes,  yon  mighty  wood  consigned 
To  Autumn's  blight,  bemoans  its  perished  bloom ; 
The  dim  air  creeps  with  a  vague,  shuddering  thrill 
Down  from  those  monstrous  mists,  the  sea-gale  brings, 
Half  formless,  inland,  poisoning  earth  and  sky ; 
Most  from  yon  black  cloud,  shaped  like  vampire  wings 
O'er  a  lost  angel's  visage,  deathly-still, 
Uplifted  toward  some  dread  eternity. 


SONNET. 

OF  all  the  woodland  flowers  of  earlier  spring, 

These  golden  jasmines,  each  an  air-hung  bower, 

Meet  for  the  Queen  of  Fairies'  tiring  hour, 

Seem  loveliest  and  most  fair  in  blossoming ; — 

How  yonder  mock-bird  thrills  his  fervid  wing 

And   long,  lithe    throat,  where    twinkling    flower    on 

flower 

Rains  the  globed  dewdrops  down,  a  diamond  shower, 
O'er  his  brown  head,  poised  as  in  act  to  sing ; — 
Lo  !  the  swift  sunshine  floods  the  flowery  urns, 
Girding  their  delicate  gold  with  matchless  light, 
Till  the  blent  life  of  bough,  leaf,  blossom,  burns; 
Then,  then  outburstslhe  mock-bird  clear  and  loud, 
Half-drunk  with  perfume,  veiled  by  radiance  bright, — 
A  star  of  music  in  a  fiery  cloud  ! 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


SONNET. 

I  FEAR  thee  not,  O  Death  !  nay,  oft  I  pine 

To  clasp  thy  passionless  bosom  to  mine  own, — 

And  on  thy  heart  sob  out  my  latest  moan, 

Ere  lapped  and  lost  in  thy  strange  sleep  divine ; 

But  much  I  fear  lest  that  chill  breath  of  thine 

Should  freeze  all  tender  memories  into  stone, — 

Lest  ruthless  and  malign  Oblivion 

Quench  the  last  spark  that  lingers  on  love's  shrine  :- 

O  God  !  to  moulder  through  dark,  dateless  years, — 

The  while  all  loving  ministries  shall  cease, 

And  Time  assuage  the  fondest  mourner's  tears  ! — 

Here  lies  the  sting ! — this,  this  it  is  to  die  ! — 

And  yet  great  Nature  rounds  all  strife  with  peace, 

And  life  or  death, — each  rests  in  mystery ! 


FIRE. PICTURES. 

O  !  THE  rolling,  rushing  Fire  ! 

O  !  the  Fire  ! 

How  it  rages,  wilder,  higher, 
Like  a  hot  heart's  fierce  desire, 
Thrilled  with  passion  that  appalls  us, 
Half  appalls,  and  yet  enthralls  us, 
O  !  the  madly  mounting  Fire  ! 


FIRE  PICTURES. 

Up  it  sweepeth, — wave  and  quiver, — 
Roaring  like  an  angry  river, — 

O  !  the  Fire  !— 

Which  an  earthquake  backward  turneth, 
Backward  o'er  its  riven  courses, 
Backward  to  its  mountain  sources, 
While  the  blood-red  sunset  burneth, 
Like  a  God's  face  grand  with  ire, — 
O  !  the  bursting,  billowy  Fire  ! 

Now  the  sombre  smoke-clouds  thicken 
To  a  dim  Plutonian  night ; — 

O  !  the  Fire  !— 

How  its  flickering  glories  sicken, 
Sicken  at  the  blight ! 
Pales  the  flame,  and  spreads  the  vapor, 
Till  scarce  larger  than  a  taper, 
Flares  the  waning,  struggling  light : 
O  !  thou  wan,  faint-hearted  Fire, 

Sadly  darkling, 

Weakly  sparkling, 
Rise  !  assert  thy  might ! 

Aspire  !  aspire  ! 

At  the  word,  a  vivid  lightning, 
Threat'ning,  swaying,  darting,  bright'ning, 
Where  the  loftiest  yule-log  towers, — 

Bursts  once  more, 
Sudden  bursts  the  awakened  Fire ; 

Hear  it  roar  ! 
Roar,  and  mount  high,  high,  and  higher, 

Till  beneath, 
Only  here  and  there  a  wreath 


57 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Of  the  passing  smoke-cloud  lowers, — 
Ha  !  the  glad,  victorious  Fire  ! 

O  !  the  Fire  ! 

How  it  changes, 

Changes,  ranges 

Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought, 
Changes  like  a  wizard  thought ; 
See  Vesuvian  lavas  rushing 
'Twixt  the  rocks!  the  ground  asunder 
Shivers  at  the  earthquake's  thunder, 
And  the  glare  of  Hell  is  flushing 
Startled  hill-top,  quaking  town; 
Temples,  statues,  towers  go  down, 
While  beyond  that  lava-flood, 
Dark-red  like  blood, 
I  behold  the  children  fleeting 
Clasped  by  many  a  frenzied  hand ; 
What  a  flight,  and  what  a  meeting, 
On  the  ruined  strand  ! 

O  !  the  Fire  ! 

Eddying  higher,  higher,  higher 
From  the  vast  volcanic  cones ; 
O  !  the  agony,  the  groans 
Of  those  thousands  stifling  there  ! 
"Fancy,"  say  you?  but  how  near 
Seem  the  anguish  and  the  fear  ! 

Swelling,  turbulent,  pitiless  Fire : 
'Tis  a  mad  northeastern  breeze 
Raving  o'er  the  prairie  seas; 
How,  like  living  things,  the  grasses 
Tremble  as  the  storm-breath  passes, 


FIRE   PICTURES,  59 

Ere  the  flames'  devouring  magic 
Coils  about  their  golden  splendor, 

And  the  tender 
Glory  of  the  mellowing  fields 
To  the  wild  Destroyer  yields ; 
Dreadful  waste  for  flowering  blooms, 
Desolate  darkness,  like  the  tomb's, 
Over  which  there  broods  the  while, 
Instead  of  daylight's  happy  smile, 
A  pall  malign  and  tragic  ! 

Marvelous  Fire  ! 

Changing,  ranging 
Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought, 
Changing  like  a  charmed  thought ; 
A  stir,  a  murmur  deep, 
Like  airs  that  rustle  over  jungle-reeds, 
Where  the  gaunt  Tiger  breathes  but  half  asleep ; 

A  bodeful  stir, — 
And  then  the  victim  of  his  own  pure  deeds, 

I  mark  the  mighty  Fire 
Clasp  in  its  cruel  palms  a  martyr-saint, 

Christ's  faithful  worshiper ; — 
One  mortal  cry  affronts  the  pitying  Day, 
One  ghastly  arm  uplifts  itself  to  heaven — 
When  the  swart  smoke  is  riven, — 
Ere  the  last  sob  of  anguish  dies  away, 
The  worn  limbs  droop  and  faint, 
And  o'er  those  reverend  hairs,  silvered  and  hoary, 
Settles  the  semblance  of  a  crown  of  glory. 

Tireless  Fire  ! 
Changing,  ranging 


60  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Through  all  phases  fancy-wrought, 
Changing  like  a  Protean  thought ; 
Here's  a  glowing,  warm  interior, 
A  Dutch  tavern,  rich  and  rosy 
With  deep  color, — sill  and  floor 
Dazzling  as  the  white  seashore, 
Where  within  his  arm-chair  cosy 
Sits  a  Toper,  stout  and  yellow, 
Blinking  o'er  his  steamy  bowl; 

Hugely  drinking, 

Slyly  winking, 

As  the  pot-house  Hebe  passes, 
With  a  clink  and  clang  of  glasses ; 
Ha  !  'tis  plain,  the  stout  old  fellow — 
As  his  wont  is — waxes  mellow, 
Nodding  'twixt  each  dreamy  leer, 
Swaying  in  his  elbow  chair, 
Next  to  one, — a  portly  Peasant, — 
Pipe  in  hand,  whose  swelling  cheek, 
Jolly,  rubicund,  and  sleek, 
Puffs  above  the  blazing  coal ; 
While  his  heavy,  half-shut  eyes 
Watch  the  smoke  wreaths  evanescent, 
Eddying  lightly  as  they  rise, 
Eddying  lightly  and  aloof 
Toward  the  great,  black,  oaken  roof! 

Dreaming  still,  from  out  the  Fire 
Faces  grinning  and  grotesque, 
Flash  an  eery  glance  upon  me  ; 
Or,  once  more,  methinks,  I  sun  me 
On  the  breadths  of  happy  plain 
Sloping  towards  the  Southern  main, 


FIRE   PICTURES.  6 1 

Where  the  inmost  soul  of  shadow 

Wins  a  golden  heat, 
And  the  hill-side  and  the  meadow 
(Where  the  vines  and  clover  meet, 
Twining  round  the  virgins'  feet, 
While  the  natural  arabesque 
Of  the  foliage  grouped  above  them 
Droops,  as  if  the  leaves  did  love  them, 
Over  brow,  and  lips,  and  eyes) 
Gleam  with  hints  of  Paradise  ! 

Ah!  the  Fire! 

Gently  glowing, 

Fairly  flowing, 
Like  a  rivulet  rippling  deep 
Through  the  meadow-lands  of  sleep, 
Bordered  where  its  music  swells, 
By  the  languid  lotos-bells, 
And  the  twilight  asphodels ; 
Mingled  with  a  richer  boon 
Of  queen-lilies,  each  a  moon, 
Orbed  into  white  completeness ; 
O  !  the  perfume  !  the  rare  sweetness 
Of  those  grouped  and  fairy  flowers, 
Over  which  the  love-lorn  hours 
Linger,— not  alone  for  them, 
Though  the  lotos  swings  its  stem 
With  a  lulling  stir  of  leaves, — 
Though  the  lady-lily  laves 
Coy  feet  in  the  crystal  waves, 
And  a  silvery  undertune 
From  some  mystic  wind-song  grieves 
6 


62  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Dainty-sweet,  amid  the  bells 

Of  the  twilight  asphodels ; 

But  because  a  charm  more  rare 

Glorifies  the  mellow  air, 

In  the  gleam  of  lifted  eyes, 

In  the  tranquil  ecstasies 

Of  two  lovers,  leaf-embowered, 

Lingering  there, — 

Each  of  whose  fair  lives  hath  flowered, 
Like  the  lily-petals  finely, 
Like  the  asphodel  divinely. 

Titan  arches ! 

Titan  spires  ! 

Pillars  whose  vast  capitals 
Tower  towards  Cyclopean  halls, 
And  whose  unknown  bases  pierce 
Down  the  nether  Universe  ; 
Countless  coruscations  glimmer, 
Glow  and  darken,  wane  and  shimmer, 
'Twixt  majestic  standards,  swooping, — 
Like  the  wings  of  some  strange  bird 
By  mysterious  currents  stirred 
Of  great  winds, — or  darkly  drooping, — 
In  a  hush  sublime  as  death, 
When  the  conflict's  quivering  breath 
Sobs  its  gory  life  away, 
At  the  close  of  fateful  marches, 
On  an  empire's  natal  day : 
Countless  coruscations  glimmer, 
Glow  and  darken,  wane  and  shimmer, 
Round  the  shafts,  and  round  the  walls, 
Whence  an  ebon  splendor  falls 


FIRE   PICTURES.  63 

On  the  scar-seamed,  angel  bands,  — 

(Desolate  bands!) 
Grasping  in  their  ghostly  hands 
Weapons  of  an  antique  rage, 
From  some  lost,  celestial  age, 
When  the  serried  throngs  were  hurled 
Blasted  to  the  under  world  : 
Shattered  spear-heads,  broken  brands, 
And  the  mammoth,  moonlike  shields, 
Blazoned  on  their  lurid  fields, 
With  uncouth,  malignant  forms, 

Glowering,  wild, 
Like  the  huge  cloud-masses  piled 
Up  a  Heaven  of  storms  ! 


Ah,  the  faint  and  flickering  Fire  ! 

Ah,  the  Fire  ! 

Like  a  young  man's  transient  ire, 
Like  an  old  man's  last  desire, 
Lo  !  it  falters,  dies  ! 
Still,  through  weary,  half-closed  lashes, 

Still  I  see, 
But  brokenly,  but  mistily, 

Fall  and  rise, 

Rise  and  fall, 

Ghosts  of  shifting  phantasy  ; 
Now  the  embers,  smouldered  all, 
Sink  to  ruin  ;  sadder  dreams 
Follow  on  their  vanished  gleams  : 
Wailingly  the  spirits  call, 
Spirits  on  the  night-winds  solemn, 
Wraiths  of  happy  Hopes  that  left  me  ; 


64  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

(Cruel !  why  did  ye  depart  ?) 

Hopes  that  sleep,  their  youthful  riot 

Merged  in  an  awful  quiet, 

With  the  heavy  grief-moulds  pressed 

On  each  pallid,  pulseless  breast, 

In  that  graveyard  called  THE  HEART, 

Stern  and  lone, 
Needing  no  memorial  stone, 
And  no  blazoned  column : 

Let  them  rest ! 

Let  them  rest ! 

;  Yes,  'tis  useless  to  remember 
May-morn  in  the  mirk  December ; 
Still,  O  Hopes  !  because  ye  were 
Beautiful^  and  strong,  and  fair, 
Nobly  brave,  and  sweetly  bright, 

Who  shall  dare 

Scorn  me,  if  through  moistened  lashes, 
Musing  by  my  hearthstone  blighted, 
Weary,  desolate,  benighted, — 
I,  because  those  sweet  Hopes  left  me, 
I,  because  my  Fate  bereft  me, 

Mourn  my  dead, 

Mourn, — and  shed 
Hot  tears  in  the  ashes? 


FROM   THE    WOODS.  65 


FROM   THE   WOODS. 

WHY  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid  spleen, 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  half-desert  scene, 

My  lot  is  placed? 

At  least  the  poet-winds  are  bold  and  loud,  — 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud, 
And  forests  old  and  proud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the  waste. 

Perchance  'tis  best  that  I,  whose  Fate's  eclipse 
Seems  final,  —  I,  whose  sluggish  life-wave  slips 

Languid  away,  — 

Should  here,  within  these  lowly  walks,  apart 
From  the  fierce  throbbings  of  the  populous  mart, 

Commune  with  mine  own  heart, 
While  Wisdom  blooms  from  buried  Hope's  decay. 

Nature,  though  wild  her  forms,  sustains  me  still  ; 
The  founts  are  musical,  —  the  barren  hill 

Glows  with  strange  lights  ; 

Through  solemn  pine-groves  the  small  rivulets  fleet 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  Naiad's  silvery  feet, 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat, 
Glanced  through  the  star-gleams  on  calm  summer  nights  ; 

And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven  above, 
Darkens  with  storms  or  melts  in  hues  of  love  ; 
While  far  remote, 
6* 


66  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Just  where  the  sunlight  smites  the  woods  with  fire, 
Wakens  the  multitudinous  sylvan  choir ; 
There  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  harmonious  throat. 

My  walls  are  crumbling,  but  immortal  looks 
Smile  on  me  here  from  faces  of  rare  books : 

Shakspeare  consoles 

My  heart  with  true  philosophies ;  a  balm 
Of  spiritual  dews  from  humbler  song  or  psalm 

Fills  me  with  tender  calm, 

Or  through  hushed  heavens  of  soul  Milton's  deep  thun 
der  rolls  ! 

And  more  than  all,  o'er  shattered  wrecks  of  Fate, 
The  relics  of  a  happier  time  and  state, 

My  nobler  Life 

Shines  on  unquenched  !     O  deathless  love  that  lies 
In  the  clear  midnight  of  those  passionate  eyes  ! 

Joy  waneth  !     Fortune  flies  ! 

What  then  ?     Thou  still  art  here,  soul  of  my  soul,  my 
Wife! 


J  -   r-  <fr 

AN   ANNIVERSARY. 

O  LOVE,  it  is  our  wedding-day  ! 

This  morn, — how  swift  the  seasons  flee  ! 
A  virgin  morn  of  cloudless  May, 

You  gave  your  loyal  hand  to  me, 
Your  dainty  hand,  claspt  sweet  and  sure 
As  Love's  sweet  self,  for  evermore  ! 


AN  ANNIVERSARY.  67 

0  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  memory  flies  from  now  to  then ; 

1  mark  the  soft  heat-lightning  play 

Of  blushes  o'er  your  cheek  again, 
And  shy  but  fond  foreshadowings  rise 
Of  tranquil  joy  in  tender  eyes. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day ; 

The  very  rustling  of  your  dress, 
The  trembling  of  your  arm  that  lay 

On  mine,  with  timorous  happiness, 
Your  fluttered  breath  and  faint  footfall, — 
Ah,  sweet,  I  hear,  I  see  them  all ! 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  backward  Time's  strange  current  rolls, 
Till  life's  and  love's  auspicious  May 

Once  more  is  blooming  in  our  souls, 
And,  larklike,  swell  the  songs  of  hope, 
Your  blissful  bridal  horoscope. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, — 
Yet  say,  did  those  fair  hopes  but  sing, 

Lapped  in  the  tuneful  morn  of  May, 
To  die  or  droop  on  faltering  wing, 

When  noontide  heats  and  evening  chills 

Made  pale  the  flowers  and  veiled  the  hills  ? 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  none  of  those  glad  hopes  of  youth, 

Thrilled  to  its  height,  outpoured  a  lay 
To  match  our  future's  simple  truth  : 

Though  deep  the  joy  of  vow  and  shrine,  / 

Our  wedded  calm  is  more  divine  ! 


68  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day  ! 

Life's  summer,  with  slow-waning  beam, 
Tints  the  near  autumn's  cloud-land  gray 

To  softness  of  a  fairy  dream, 
Whence  Peace  by  musing  Pathos  kissed, 
Smiles  through  a  veil  of  golden  rnist. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day ; 

The  conscious  winds  are  whispering  low 
Those  passionate  secrets  of  the  May 

Fraught  with  your  kisses  long  ago ; 
Warm  memories  of  our  years  remote 
Are  trembling  in  the  mock-bird's  throat. 

O  Love,  it  is  our  wedding-day, — 

And  not  a  thrush  in  woodland  bowers, 

And  not  a  rivulet's  silvery  lay, 

Nor  tiny  bee-song  'mid  the  flowers, 

Nor  any  voice  of  land  or  sea, 

But  deepens  love  to  ecstasy  ! 

Our  wedding-day  !     The  soul's  noontide  ! 

In  these  rare  words  at  watchful  rest 
What  sweet,  melodious  meanings  hide 

Like  birds  within  one  balmy  nest, 
Each  quivering  with  an  impulse  strong 
To  flood  all  heaven  and  earth  with  song ! 


DOLCE   FAR   NIENTE. 


DOLCE   FAR   NIENTE. 

LET  the  world  roll  blindly  on  ! 
Give  me  shadow,  give  me  sun, 
And  a  perfumed  eve  as  this  is : 

Let  me  lie, 

Dreamfully, 

When  the  last  quick  sunbeams  shiver 
Spears  of  light  athwart  the  river, 
And  a  breeze,  which  seems  the  sigh 
Of  a  fairy  floating  by, 

Coyly  kisses 

Tender  leaf  and  feathered  grasses; 
Yet  so  soft  its  breathing  passes, 
These  tall  ferns,  just  glimmering  o'er  me, 
Blending  goldenly  before  me, 

Hardly  quiver ! 

I  have  done  with  worldly  scheming, 
Mocking  show,  and  hollow  seeming  ! 

Let  me  lie 

Idly  here, 

Lapped  in  lulling  waves  of  air, 
Facing  full  the  shadowy  sky. 
Fame  ! — the  very  sound  is  dreary, — 
Shut,  O  soul !   thine  eyelids  weary, 
For  all  nature's  voices  say, 
"  'Tis  the  close— the  close  of  day, 
Thought  and  grief  have  had  their  sway:" 


yo  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Now  Sleep  bares  her  balmy  breast, — 

Whispering  low 

(Low  as  moon-set  tides  that  flow 
Up  still  beaches  far  away ; 
While,  from  out  the  lucid  West, 
Flutelike  winds  of  murmurous  breath 
Sink  to  tender-panting  death), 
"  On  my  bosom  take  thy  rest ; 
(Care  and  grief  have  had  their  day!) 
'Tis  the  hour  for  dreaming, 
Fragrant  rest,  elysian  dreaming !" 


CAMBYSES  AND  THE  MACROBIAN  BOW. 

ONE  morn,  hard  by  a  slumberous  streamlet's  wave, 
The  plane-trees  stirless  in  the  unbreathing  calm, 
And  all  the  lush-red  roses  drooped  in  dream, 
Lay  King  Cambyses,  idle  as  a  cloud 
That  waits  the  wind, — aimless  of  thought  and  will, — 
But  with  vague  evil,  like  the  lightning's  bolt 
Ere  yet  the  electric  death  be  forged  to  smite, 
Seething  at  heart.     His  courtiers  ringed  him  round, 
Whereof  was  one  who  to  his  comrades'  ears, 
With  bated  breath  and  wonder-arched  brows, 
Extolled  a  certain  Bactrian's  matchless  skill 
Displayed  in  bowcraft :  at  whose  marvelous  feats, 
Eagerly  vaunted,  the  King's  soul  grew  hot 
With  envy,  for  himself  erewhile  had  been 
Rated  the  mightiest  archer  in  his  realm. 


CAMBYSES  AND    THE   MACROS  I  AN  BOW.        71 

Slowly  he  rose,  and  pointing  southward,  said, 
"  Seest  thou,  Prexaspes,  yonder  slender  palm, 
A  mere  wan  shadow  quivering  in  the  light, 
Topped  by  a  ghostly  leaf-crown  ?     Prithee,  now, 
Can  this,  thy  famous  Bactrian,  standing  here, 
Cleave  with  his  shaft  a  hand's  breadth  marked  there 
on?" 

To  which  Prexaspes  answered,  "Nay,  my  lord; 
I  spake  of  feats  compassed  by  mortal  skill, 
Not  of  Gods'  prowess."     Unto  whom,  the  King:  — 
"And  if  myself,  Prexaspes,  made  essay, 
Think'st  thou,  wise  counselor,  I  too  should  fail?" 
"  Needs  must  I,  sire," — albeit  the  courtier's  voice 
Trembled,    and    some   dark   prescience    bade    him 

pause, — 

"  Needs  must  I  hold  such  cunning  more  than  man's; 
And  for  the  rest,  I  pray  thy  pardon,  King, 
But  yester-eve,  amid  the  feast  and  dance, 
Thou  tarried' st  with  the  beakers  overlong." 

The  thick,  wild,  treacherous  eyebrows  of  the  King, 
That  looked  a  sheltering  ambush  for  ill  thoughts 
Waxing  to  manhood  of  malignant  acts, — 
These    treacherous   eyebrows,    pent -house   fashion, 

closed 

O'er  the  black  orbits  of  his  fiery  eyes, — 
Which,  clouded  thus,  but  flashed  a  deadlier  gleam 
On  all  before  him :   suddenly  as  fire, 
Half  choked  and  smouldering  in  its  own  dense  smoke, 
Bursts  into  roaring  radiance  and  swift  flame, 
Touched  by  keen  breaths  of  liberating  wind, — 
So  now  Cambyses'  eyes  a  stormy  joy 
Stormily  filled;  for  on  Prexaspes'  son, 


72  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

His  first-born  son,  they  lingered, — a  fair  boy 
('Mid  most  his  fellow-pages  flushed  with  sport), 
Who,  in  his  office  of  King's  cup-bearer, — 
So  gracious  and  so  sweet  were  all  his  ways, — 
Had  even  the  captious  sovereign  seemed  to  please ; 
While  for  the  court,  the  reckless,  reveling  court, 
They  loved  him  one  and  all  : 
"Go,"  said  Cambyses  now,  his  voice  a  hiss, 
Poisonous,  and  low,  "go,  bind  my  dainty  page 
To  yonder  palm-tree ;  bind  him  fast  and  sure, 
So  that  no  finger  stirreth ;  which  being  done, 
Fetch  me,  Prexaspes,  the  Macrobian  bow." 

Thus  ordered,  thus  accomplished,  fast  they  bound 
The  innocent  child,  the  while  that  mammoth  bow, 
Brought  by  the  spies  from  Ethiopian  camps, 
Lay  in  the  King's  hand  ;  slowly,  sternly  up, 
He  reared  it  to  the  level  of  his  sight, 
Reared,  and  bent  back  its  oaken  rnassiveness 
Till  the  vast  muscles,  tough  as  grapevines,  bulged 
From  naked  arm  and  shoulder,  and  the  horns 
Of  the  fierce  weapon  groaning,  almost  met, 
When,  with  one  lowering  glance  askance  at  him, — 
His  doubting  Satrap, — the  King  coolly  said, 
"  Prexaspes ,  look,  my  aim  is  at  the  heart!" 

Then  came  the  sharp  twang,  and  the  deadly  whirr 
Of  the  loosed  arrow,  followed  by  the  dull, 
Drear  echo  of  a  bolt  that  smites  its  mark ; 
And  those  of  keenest  vision  shook  to  see 
The  fair  child  fallen  forward  across  his  bonds, 
With  all  his  limbs  a-quivering.     Quoth  the  King, 
Clapping  Prexaspes'  shoulder,  as  in  glee, 


CAMBYSES  AND    THE   MACROBIAN  BOW. 


73 


"Go  thou,  and  tell  me  how  that  shaft  hath  sped!" 

Forward  the  wretched  father,  step  by  step, 

Crept,  as  one  creeps  whom  black  Hadean  dreams, 

Visions  of  fate  and  fear  unutterable, 

Draw,  tranced  and  rigid,  towards  some  definite  goal 

Of  horror ;  thus  he  went,  and  thus  he  saw 

What  never  in  the  noontide  or  the  night, 

Awake  or  sleeping,  idle  or  in  toil, 

'Neath  the  wild  forest  or  the  perfumed  lamps 

Of  palaces,  shall  leave  his  stricken  sight 

Unblasted.  or  his  spirit  purged  of  woe. 

Prexaspes  saw,  yet  lived ;  saw,  and  returned 

Where  still  environed  by  his  dissolute  court, 

Cambyses  leaned,  half  scornful,  on  his  bow : 

The  old  man's  face  was  riven  and  white  as  death; 

But  making  meek  obeisance  to  his  King, 

He  smiled  (ah,  such  a  smile  !)  and  feebly  said, 

"What  am  I,  mighty  master,  what  am  /, 

That  I  durst  question  my  lord's  strength  and  skill? 

His  arrows  are  like  arrows  of  the  god, 

Egyptian  Horus, — and  for  proof, — but  now, 

I  felt  a  child's  heart  (once  the  child  was  mine, 

'Tis  my  Lord's  now  and  Death's),  all  mute  and  still, 

Pierced  by  his  shaft,  and  cloven,  ye  gods!  in  twain !" 

Then  laughed  the  great  King  loudly,  till  his  beard 
Quivered,  and  all  his  stalwart  body  shook 
With  merriment ;  but  when  his  mirth  was  calmed, 
"Thou  art  forgiven,"  said  he,  "forgiven,  old  man; 
Only  when  next  these  Persian  dogs  shall  call 
Cambyses  drunkard,  rise,  Prexaspes,  rise! 
And  tell  them  how,  and  to  what  purpose,  once, 
7 


74  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Once,  on  a  morn  which  followed  hot  and  wan 
A  night  of  monstrous  revel  and  debauch, — 
Cambyses  bent  this  huge  Macrobian  bow." 


BY   THE   AUTUMN   SEA. 

FAIR  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day, 

Sad  as  the  evening's  tender  gray, 

By  the  latest  lustre  of  sunset  kissed, 

That  wavers  and  wanes  through  an  amber  mist, — 

There  cometh  a  dream  of  the  past  to  me, 

On  the  desert  sands,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

All  heaven  is  wrapped  in  a  mystic  veil, 
And  the  face  of  the  ocean  is  dim  and  pale, 
And  there  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill  northwest, 
That  seemeth  the  wail  of  a  soul's  unrest, 
As  the  twilight  falls,  and  the  vapors  flee 
Far  over  the  wastes  of  the  autumn  sea. 

A  single  ship  through  the  gloaming  glides 
Upborne  on  the  swell  of  the  seaward  tides ; 
And  above  the  gleam  of  her  topmost  spar 
Are  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper-star 
That  shine  with  an  angel's  ruth  on  me, — 
A  hopeless  waif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

/ 

The  wings  of  the  ghostly  beach-birds  gleam 
Through    the   shimmering   surf,  and    the   curlew's 
scream 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 


75 


Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening  height ; 

The  first  weird  sigh  on  the  lips  of  Night 

Breathes  low  through  the  sedge  and   the  blasted 

tree, 
With  a  murmur  of  doom,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

Oh,  sky-enshadowed  and  yearning  main, 
Your  gloom  but  deepens  this  human  pain ; 
Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  nameless  care, 
That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart's  despair, 
As  I  linger  and  muse  by  the  sombre  lea, 
And  the  night-shades  close  on  the  autumn  sea. 


THE   WIFE   OF   BRITTANY. 

(SUGGESTED  BY  THE  FRANKELEINES  TALE  OF  CHAUCER.) 
PROEM. 

TRUTH  wed  to  beauty  in  an  antique  tale, 
Sweet-voiced  like  some  immortal  nightingale, 
Trills  the  clear  burden  of  her  passionate  lay, 
As  fresh,  as  fair,  as  wonderful  to-day, 
As  when  the  music  of  her  balmy  tongue 
Ravished  the  first  warm  hearts  for  whom  she  sung. 

Thus,  when  the  early  spring-dawn  buds  are  green, 
Glistening  beneath  the  sudden  silvery  sheen 


76  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Of  glancing  showers;  while  heaven  with  bridegroom- 
kiss 

Wakens  the  virgin  earth  to  bloom  and  bliss, 
Enamored  breathing,  and  soft  raptures  born 
About  the  roseate  footsteps  of  the  morn, — 
An  old-world  song,  whose  breezy  music  pours 
Through  limpid  channels  'twixt  enchanted  shores, 
Steals  on  me  wooingly  from  that  far  time 
When  tuneful  Chaucer  wrought  his  lusty  rhyme 
Into  rare  shapes  of  fancy  and  delight, 
For  May  winds  blithely  blew,  and   hawthorn  flowers 
were  bright. 

O  brave  old  poet !  genius  frank  and  bold  ! 
Sustain  me,  cherish,  and  around  me  fold 
Thine  own  hale,  sun-warm  atmosphere  of  song, 
Lest  I,  who  touch  thy  numbers,  do  thee  wrong; 
Speed  the  deep  measure,  make  the  meaning  shine 
Ruddy  and  high  with  healthful  spirit-wine, 
Till  to  attempered  sense  and  quickening  ears 
My  strain  some  faint  harmonious  echo  bears 
From  that  rich  realm  wherein  thy  cordial  art 
Throbbed  with  its  pulse  of  fire  'gainst  youthful  Eng 
land's  heart. 

THE  STORY. 

Where  the  hoarse  billows  of  the  Northland  Sea 
Sweep  the  rude  coast  of  rock-bound  Brittany, 
Dwelt,  ages  since,  a  knight,  whose  warrior-fame 
Might  well  have  struck  all  carpet-knights  with  shame; 
Vowed  to  great  deeds  and  princely  manhood,  he 
Burgeoned  the  topmost  flower  of  chivalry ; 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  77 

Yet  gentle-hearted,  nursed  one  delicate  thought 
Fixed  firm  in  love :  with  anxious  pain  he  sought 
To  serve  his  lady  in  the  noblest  wise, 
And  many  a  labor,  many  a  grand  emprise 
He  wrought  ere  that  sweet  lady  could  be  won. 
She  was  a  maiden  bright-aired  as  the  sun, 
And  graceful  as  the  tall  lake-lilies  are 
Flushed  'twixt  the  twilight  and  the  vesper -star; 
But  born  to  such  rare  state  and  sovereignty, 
He  hardly  durst  before  her  bend  the  knee 
In  passion's  ardor  and  keen  heart  distress ; 
Still,  at  the  last,  his  loyal  worthiness 
And  mild  obeisance,  his  observance  high 
Of  manly  faith,  firm  will,  and  constancy, 
Aroused  an  answering  pity  to  his  sighs, 
Till  pity,  grown  to  love,  beamed  forth  from  genial 
eyes. 

Thus  with  pure  trust,  and  cheerful  calm  accord, 
She  made  this  gentle  suitor  her  soul's  lord ; 
And  he,  that  thence  their  happy  fates  should  stray 
Through  pastures  beauteous  as  the  fields  of  May, 
Swore  of  his  own  free  mind  to  use  the  right 
Her  mercy  gave  him,  with  no  churlish  might, 
Nor  e'er  in  wanton  freaks  of  mastery, 
Ire-bred  perverseness,  or  sharp  jealousy, 
Vex  the  clear-flowing  current  of  her  days. 
She  thanked  him  in  a  hundred  winning  ways : 
"And  I,"  she  said,  "will  be  thy  loyal  wife; 
Take  here  my  vows,  my  solemn  troth  for  life." 

On  a  June  morning,  when  the  verdurous  woods 
Flushed  to  the  core  of  dew-lit  solitudes, 


78  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Murmured  almost  as  with  a  human  feeling, 
Tenderly  low,  to  frolic  breezes  stealing 
Through  dappled  shades  and  depths  of  dainty  fern, 
Crossed  here  and  there  by  some  low-whimpering  burn, 
These  twain  were  wedded  at  a  forest  shrine. 
O  saffron-vested  Hymen  the  divine  ! 
Did  aught  of  gloom  or  boding  shadow  weigh 
Upon  thy  blushing  consciousness  that  day? 
No !  thy  frank  face  breathed  only  hope  and  love ; 
Earth  laughed  in  wave  and  leaf,  all    heaven  was  fair 
above. 

Home  to  the  land  wherein  the  knight  was  born 
Blithely  they  rode  upon  the  morrow-morn, 
Not  far  from  Penmark ;  there  they  lived  in  ease 
And  solace  of  matured  felicities, 
Until  Arviragus  whose  soul  of  fire 
Not  even  fruition  of  his  love's  desire 
Could  fill  with  languorous  idlesse,  cut  the  tie 
Which  bound  to  silken  dalliance  suddenly, 
Sailing  the  straits  for  England's  war-torn  strand, 
There  ampler  bays  to  pluck  from  victory's  "red  right 
hand." 

But  lolene,  fond  lolene,  whose  heart 
Can  beat  no  longer,  lonely  and  apart 
From  him  she  loves,  save  with  a  sickening  stress 
Of  fear  o'erwrought  and  brooding  tenderness, 
Mourns  for  his  absence  with  soul-wearying  plaint, 
Slow,  pitiful  tears  and  midnight  murmurings  faint, 
And  thus  the  whole  world  sadly  sets  at  naught. 
Meanwhile  her  friends,  who  guess  what  canker-thought 
Preys  on  her  quiet,  with  a  mild  essay 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 


79 


Strive  to  subdue  her  passion's  torturing  sway : 

' 'Beware  !  beware,  sweet  lady,  thou  wilt  slay 

Thy  reason  !  nay,  thy  very  life's  at  stake  ! 

By  love,  and  love's  dear  pleadings,  for  his  sake 

Who  yearns  to  clasp  thee  scathless  to  his  breast, 

We  pray  thee,  soothe  these  maddening  cares  to  rest !" 

Even  as  the  patient  graver  on  a  stone, 

Laboring  with  tireless  fingers,  sees  anon 

The  shape  embodying  his  rare  fancies  grow 

And  lighten,  thus  upon  her  stubborn  woe 

Their  tireless  comforts  wrought,  until  a  Trust, 

Clear-eyed  and  constant,  raised  her  from  the  dust 

And  ashy  shroud  of  sorrow;  her  despair 

Gave  place  to  twilight  gladness  and  soft  cheer, 

Confirmed  ere  long  by  letters  from  her  love : 

"Dear  lolene!"  he  wrote,  "thou  tender  dove 

That  tremblest  in  thy  chilly  nest  at  home, 

Prithee  embrace  meek  patience  till  I  come. 

Lo,  the  swift  winds  blow  freshening  o'er  the  sea, 

From  out  the  sunset  isles  I  speed  to  rest  with  thee  !" 

The  knight's  ancestral  home  stood  grim  and  tall 

Beyond  its  shadowy  moat  and  frowning  wall ; 

It  topped  a  gradual  summit  crowned  with  fir, 

Green  murmurous  myrtle,  and  wild  juniper, 

Fronting  a  long,  rude,  solitary  strand, 

Whereon  the  earliest  sunbeam,  like  a  hand 

Of  tremulous  benediction,  rested  bland, 

And  warmly  quivering;  o'er  the  wave-worn  lea 

Gleamed  the  broad  spaces  of  the  open  sea. 

Now  often,  with  her  pitying  friends  beside, 

She  walked  the  desolate  beach  and  watched  the  tide, 


80  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Forth  looking  through  unconscious  tears  to  view- 
Sail  after  sail  pass  shimmering  o'er  the  blue ; 
And  to  herself,  ofttimes,  "Alas!"  said  she, 
"Is  there  no  ship,  of  all  these  ships  I  see, 
Will  bring  me  home  my  lord?     Woe,  woe  is  me! 
Though  winds  blow  fresh,  and  sea-birds  skim  the  main, 
Thou   still  delay 'st,  my  liege  !     Ah,  wilt  thou  come 
again?" 

Sometimes  would  she,  half-dreaming,  sit  and  think, 
Casting  her  dark  eyes  downward  from  the  brink; 
And  when  she  saw  those  grisly  rocks  beneath, 
Round  which  the  pallid  foam,  in  many  a  wreath 
White  as  the  lips  of  passion,  faintly  curled, 
Her  thoughts  would  pierce  to  the  drear  under-world, 
'Mid   shipwrecks  wandering,  and  bleached   bones  of 

those 

O'er  whom  the  unresting  ocean  ebbs  and  flows ; 
And  though  the  shining  waters  hushed  and  deep, 
Might  slumber  like  an  innocent  child  asleep, 
From  out  the  North  her  prescient  fancy  raised 
Huge  ghostlike  clouds,  and  spectral  lightnings  blazed 
I'  th'  van  of  phantom  thunder,  and  the  roar 
Of  multitudinous  waters  on  the  shore, 
Heard  as  in  dreadful  trance  its  billowy  swells 
Blent  with  the  mournful  tone  of  far  funereal  bells ! 

Her  friends  perceiving  that  this  seaside  walk, 
Though  gay  and  jovial  their  unstudied  talk, 
But  dashed  her  dubious  spirits,  kindly  took 
And  led  her  where  the  blossom-bordered  brook 
Babbled  through  woodlands,  and  the  limpid  pool 
Lay  couched  like  some  shy  Naiad  in  the  cool 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  8 1 

Of  mossy  glades;  or  when  a  tedious  hour 
Pressed  on  her  with  its  dim,  lethargic  power, 
They  wooed  her  with  glad  games  or  jocund  song, 
Till  the  dull  demon  ceased  to  do  her  wrong. 

So,  on  a  pleasant  May  morn,  while  the  dew 
Sparkled  on  tiny  hedgerow-flowers  of  blue, 
Passing  through  many  a  sun-brown  orchard-field, 
They  reach  a  fairy  plesaunce,  which  revealed 
Such  prospects  into  breezy  inland  vales, 
The  natural  haunt  of  plaining  nightingales, 
Such  verdant,  grassy  plots,  through  which  there  rolled 
A  gleeful  rivulet  glimpsing  sands  of  gold, 
And  winding  slow  by  clumps  of  plumed  pines, 
Rich  realms  of  bay,  and  gorgeous  jasmine-vines, 
That  none  who  strayed  to  that  fair  flowery  place 
Had  paused  in  wonder  if  its  sylvan  Grace, 
Embodied,  beauteous,  with  an  arch  embrace 
Had  stopped,  and  smiling,  kissed  them  face  to  face. 

A  buoyant,  blithesome  company  were  they, 
Grouped  round  the  plesaunce  on  that  morn  of  May ; 
Wit,  song,  and  rippling  laughter,  and  arch  looks 
That  might  have  lured  the  wood-gods  from  their  nooks, 
Echoed  and  flashed  like  dazzling  arrows  tipped 
With  amorous  heat;  and  now  and  then  there  slipped 
From  out  the  whirling  ring  of  jocund  girls, 
Wreathing  white  arms  and  tossing  wanton  curls, 
Some  maiden  who  with  momentary  mien 
Of  coy  demureness  bent  o'er  lolene, 
And  whispered  sunniest  nothings  in  her  ear. 

First  'mid  the  brave  gallants  assembling  there 


82  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Aurelian  came,  a  squire  of  fair  degree, 

Tall,  vigorous,  handsome,  his  whole  air  so  free, 

Yet  courteous,  and  such  princely  sweetness  blent 

With  every  well-timed,  graceful  compliment, 

That  sooth  to  speak,  where'er  Aurelian  went, 

To  turbulent  tilt-yard  and  baronial  hall, 

Sporting  a-field  or  at  high  festival, 

Favor,  like  sunshine,  filled  his  heart  and  eyes. 

Thus  nobly  gifted,  high-born,  opulent,  wise, 

One  hidden  curse  was  his:   for  troublous  years,* 

Secretly,  swayed  in  turn  by  hopes  and  fears, 

And  all  unknown  to  her,  his  heart's  desire, 

This  youth  had  loved  with  wild,  delirious  fire, 

The  lonely,  sad,  unconscious  lolene. 

He  durst  not  show  how  love  had  brought  him  teen, 

Nor  prove  how  deep  his  passion's  inward  might; 

Thinking,  half  maddened,  on  her  absent  knight; 

Save  that  the  burden  of  a  love-lorn  lay 

Would  somewhat  of  his  stifled  flame  betray, 

But  in  those  vague  complainings  poets  use, 

When  charging  Love  with  outrage  and  abuse 

Of  his  all-potent  witchery.     "Ah,"  said  he, 

"I  love,  but  ever  love  despondently; 

For  though  one  vision  haunts  me,  and  I  burn 

To  hold  that  dream  incarnated,  I  yearn 

In  vain,  in  vain;  love  breathes  no  bland  return!" 

Thus  only  did  Aurelian  strive  to  show 
What  pangs  of  hidden  passion  worked  below 

*  We  are  to  suppose  that  Aurelian  had  seen  lolene  previous  to  her 
marriage,  and  that  circumstances  had  prevented  his  becoming  intimate 
with  her,  or  in  any  way  prosecuting  his  suit  honestly  and  frankly. 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  83 

The  surface  calmness  of  his  front  serene; 
Unless  perhaps  he  met  his  beauteous  Queen, 
Scarce  brightening  at  the  banquet  or  the  dance ; 
When,  with  a  piercing  yet  half-piteous  glance, 
His  eyes  would  search,  then  strangely  shun  her  face, 
As  one  condemned,  who  fears  to  sue  for  grace. 

But  on  this  self-same  day,  when,  homeward  bound, 
Her  footsteps  sought  the  loneliest  path  that  wound 
Through  tangled  copses  to  the  upland  ground 
And  orchard  close, — her  fair  companions  kissed 
With  tearful  thanks,  and  all  kind  friends  dismissed, — 
Aurelian,  who  the  secret  pathway  knew, 
Through   the   dense   growth    and   shrouded   foliage 

drew 

Near  the  pale  Queen,  the  lady  of  his  dreams: 
The  evening's  soft  pathetic  splendor  streams 
O'er  her  clear  forehead  and  her  chestnut  hair, 
All  glorified  as  in  celestial  air; 
But  the  dark  eyes  a  wistful  light  confessed, 
And  some  soft  murmuring  fancies  heaved  her  breast 
Benignly,  like  enamored  tides  that  rise 
And  sink  melodious  to  the  West  wind's  sighs. 
He  gazed,  and  the  long  passion  he  had  nursed, 
Impetuous,  sudden,  unrestrained,  o'erburst 
All  bounds  of  custom  and  enforced  restraint: 
"O  lady,  hear  me:   I  am  deadly  faint, 
Yet  wild  with  love  !  such  love  as  forces  man 
To  beard  conventions,  trample  on  the  ban 
Of  partial  laws,  spurn  with  contemptuous  hate 
Whate'er  would  bar  or  blight  his  blissful  fate, 
And  in  the  feverous  frenzy  of  his  zeal, 
Even  from  the  shrinking  flower  he  dotes  on,  steal 


84  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Blush,  fragrance,  and  heart-dew !  Forgive !  forgive ! 
What !  have  I  dared  to  tell  thee  this,  to  live 
For  aye  hereafter  in  thy  cold  regard? 
Yet  veil  thy  scorn ;  nor  make  more  cold  and  hard 
The  anguished  life  now  cowering  at  thy  feet." 

As  o'er  a  billowy  field  of  ripened  wheat 
One  sees  perchance  the  spectral  shadows  meet, 
Cast  by  a  darkened  heaven,  whose  lowering  hush 
Broods,  thunder-charged,  above  its  golden  flush, — 
So,  a  dark  wonder,  a  sublime  suspense, 
Of  gathering  wrath  at  this  wild  insolence, 
Dimmed  the  mild  glory  of  her  brow  and  lips; 
Her  beauty,  more  majestic  in  eclipse, 
Shone  with  that  awful  iustre  which  of  old, 
In  the  god's  temples  and  the  fanes  of  gold. 
Blazed  in  the  Pythia's  face,  and  shook  her  form 
With  throes  of  baleful  prophecy;  a  storm 
She  stood  incarnate,  in  whose  ominous  gloom 
Throbbed  the  red  lightning  on  the  verge  of  doom. 

But  as  a  current  of  soft  air,  unfelt 

On  the  lower  earth,  is  seen  ere  long  to  melt 

The  up-piled  surge  of  tempests  slowly  driven 

In  scattered  vapors  through  the  deeps  of  heaven, 

Thus  a  serener  thought  tenderly  played 

Across  her  spirit;  its  portentous  shade, 

Big  with  unuttered  wrath  and  meanings  dire, 

Began  with  slow,  wan  pulsings  to  expire ; 

A  far  ethereal  voice  she  seemed  to  hear 

Luting  its  merciful  accents  in  her  ear, 

Subtly  harmonious:    "Yea,"  she  thought,  "in  truth, 

A  rage,  a  madness  holds  him,  the  poor  youth 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  85 

Is  drunk  with  passion !     Shall  I,  deeply  blessed 
By  all  love's  sweets,  its  balm  and  trustful  rest, 
Crush  the  less  fortunate  spirit?  utterly 
Blight  and  destroy  him,  all  for  love  of  me? 
His  hopes,  if  hopes  he  hath,  must  surely  die ; 
Still  would  I  nip  their  blossoms  tenderly, 
With  a  slight,  airy  frost-bite  of  contempt. 
God's  mercy,  good  Sir  Squire!  art  thou  exempt 
Of  courtesy  as  of  reason?     What  weird  spell 
Doth  work  this  madness  in  thee,  and  compel 
Thy  nobler  nature  to  such  base  despites  ? 
Forsooth,  thou' It  blush  some  day  the  flower  of  knights, 
Should  this  thy  budding  virtue  wax  and  grow 
To  natural  consummation  !     Come !  thy  flow 
Of  weak  self-ruth  might  shame  the  veriest  child, 
A  six  years'  peevish  unchin,  whimpering  wild, 
And  scattering  his  torn  locks,  because  afar 
He  sees  and  yearns  to   clasp,  but   cannot  clasp,   a 
star!" 

She  ceased,  with  shame  and  pity  weighing  down 
Her  dovelike  lids  demurely,  and  a  frown 
Just  struggling  faintly  with  as  faint  a  smile 
(For  the  mute,  trembling  squire  still  knelt  the  while) 
Round  the  arch  dimples  of  her  rosy  mouth ; 
Whereon,  in  fitful  fashion,  like  the  South 
Which  sweeps  with  petulant  wing  a  field  of  blooms, 
Then  dies  a  heedless  death  'mong  golden  brooms 
And  lavish  shrubbery,  briefly  she  resumes, 
With  quick-drawn  breath,  the  courses  of  her  speech: 
"  Aurelian,  rise  !     Behold'st  thou  yonder  beach, 
And  the  blue  waves  beyond?  those  bristling  rocks, 
O'er  which  the  chafed  sea,  in  quick  thunder-shocks, 
8 


86  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Leaps  passionate,  panting  through  the  showery  spray, 
Roaring  defiance  to  the  calm-eyed  day  ? 
Ah,  well,  fantastic  boy  !     I  blithely  swear 
When  yon  rude  coast  beneath  us  rises  clear 
(Down  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  wild  Bretaigne), 
Of  that  black  rampart  darkening  sky  and  main, 
I'll  pay  thy  vows  with  answering  vows  again, 
And  be — God  save  the  mark! — thy  paramour." 

Her  words  struck  keen  and  deep,  even  to  the  core 
Of  the  rash  listener's  soul;  they  seemed  to  be 
More  fatal  in  their  careless  irony 
Than  if  the  levin  bolt,  hurled  from  above, 
Had  slain  at  once  his  manhood  and  his  love. 
What  more  he  felt  in  sooth  'twere  vain  to  tell ; 
He  only  heard  her  whispering,  "  Fare-thee-well, 
And  Heaven  assoil  thee  of  all  sinful  sorrow!" 
Then,  with  a  grace  and  majesty  which  borrow 
Fresh  lustrous  sweetness  from  an  inward  stress 
And  hidden  motion  of  chaste  gentleness, 
She  glideth  like  some  beauteous  cloud  apart : 
Aurelian  saw  her  pass  with  yearning  pangs  at  heart. 

PART   II. 

Soul-epochs  are  there,  when  Grief's  pitiless  storm 
O'erwhelms  the  amazed  spirit;   when  the  warm 
Exultant  heart,  whose  hopes  were  brave  and  high, 
Shrinks  in  the  darkness,  withering  all  its  sky: 
Then,  like  a  wounded  bird  by  the  rude  wind 
Clutched  and  borne  onward,  tortured,  reckless,  blind, 
Too  frail  to  struggle  with  that  passionate  blast, 
We  take  wild,  wavering  courses,  and  at  last 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  37 

Are  dashed,  it  may  be,  on  the  rocky  verge, 
Or  hurled  o'er  the  unknown  and  perilous  surge 
Of  some  dark  doom,  when,  bruised  and  tempest-tost, 
We  sink  in  turbulent  eddies,  and  are  lost. 

Urged  by  a  mood  thus  desperate,  careless  what 

Thenceforth  befell  him,  from  that  hateful  spot, 

The  scene  of  such  stern  anguish  and  despair, 

Aurelian  rushed,  he  knew  not,  recked  not,  where. 

All  night  he  wandered  in  the  forest  drear, 

Till  on  the  pale  phantasmal  front  of  morn 

The  first  thin  flickering  day-gleam  glanced  forlorn, 

Wan  as  the  wraith  of  perished  hopes,  the  ghost 

Of  wishes  long  sustained  and  fostered  most, 

Now  gone  for  evermore.      "O  Christ !   that  I," 

He  muttered  hoarsely,  "might  unsought  for  lie 

Here,  in  the  dismal  shadows  and  dank  grass, 

And  close  my  heavy  eyelids,  and  so  pass 

With  one  brief  struggle  from  the  world  of  men, 

Never  to  grieve  or  languish, — never  again  ! 

Never  to  sow  live  seeds  of  expectation 

And  joyous  promise,  to  reap  desolation; 

But  as  the  seasons  fly,  snow-wreathed,  or  crowned 

With  odorous  garlands,  rest  in  the  mute  ground, 

Peaceful,  oblivious, — a  Lethean  cloud 

Wrapped  round  my  faded  senses  like  a  shroud, 

And  all  earth's  turmoil  and  its  juggling  show 

Dead  as  a  dream  dissolved  ten  thousand  years  ago!" 

Long,  long  revolving  his  sad  thoughts  he  stood, 
When  gleefully  from  out  the  lightening  wood 
Came  the  sharp  ring  of  horn  and  echoing  steed ; 
A  score  of  huntsmen,  scouring  at  full  speed, 


88  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Flashed  like  a  brilliant  meteor  o'er  the  scene, 
In  royal  pomp  of  glimmering  gold  and  green; 
Whereat,  with  wrathful  gestures,  'neath  the  dome 
Of  the  old  wood  he  hastened  towards  his  home, 
Where  day  by  day  he  grew  more  woeful-pale, 
Calling  on  Heaven  unheard  to  ease  his  bale. 

Among  his  kinfolk,  many  in  hot  haste, 

To  salve  an  unknown  wound  with  balms  misplaced, 

Came  the  Squire's  brother,  Curio, — a  wise  scribe, 

Modest  withal,  and  nobler  than  his  tribe; 

With  heart  as  loving  as  his  brain  was  wise : 

He  could  not  see  with  cold,  indifferent  eyes 

Aurelian  pass  to  madness  or  the  grave, 

While  care  and  wit  of  man  perchance  might  save; 

So,  pondering  o'er  what  seemed  a  desperate  case, 

At  length  there  leapt  into  his  kindling  face 

The  flush  of  a  bright  thought.     "By  Heaven!"  cried 

he, 

"O  brother,  there  may  still  be  hope  for  thee; 
Therefore,  take  heart  of  grace,  for  what  I  tell 
Doubtless  preludes  a  health-inspiring  spell ; 
And  thou,  released  from  this  long,  sorrowful  blight, 
Shalt  feel  the  stir  of  joy,  and  bless  the  morning  light. 

"Ten    years  —  ten    centuries    sometimes    they   would 

seem — 

Passed  idly  o'er  me  like  a  mystic's  dream; 
Ten  years  agone,  when  these  dull  locks  of  mine 
Flowed  round  broad  shoulders  with  a  perfumed  shine, 
And  life's  clear  glass  o'erbrimmed  with  purpling  wine, 
I  met  in  Orleans  a  shrewd  clerk-at-law, 
One  all  his  comrades  loved,  yet  viewed  with  awe, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  89 

To  whom  the  deepest  lore  of  antique  ages, 
The  stored  secrets  of  old  seers  and  sages 
In  Greece,  or  Ind,  or  Araby,  lay  bare : 
From  out  the  vacant  kingdoms  of  the  air, 
He  could  at  will  call  forth  an  hundred  forms, 
Hideous  or  lovely:   the  wild  wrath  of  storms; 
The  zephyr's  sweetness;  bird,  beast,  wave,  obeyed 
The  luminous  signs  his  slender  wand  conveyed, 
At  whose  weird  touch  men  sick  in  flesh  or  brain 
Became  their  old,  bright,  hopeful  selves  again. 
Aurelian,  rise!  shake  off  this  vile  disease, 
And  ride  with  me  to  Orleans;  an'  it  please 
God  and  our  Lady,  we  may  chance  to  meet 
Mine  ancient  comrade,  who  with  deftest  feat 
Of  magic  skill  may  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
That  long  hath  bound,  and  darkly  binds  thy  lot." 

"But,"  said  Aurelian,  with  a  listless  turn 

Of    his   drooped    head,    and    wandering   eyes   that 

burn 

With  a  quick  feverish  brilliance,  "dost  thou  speak 
Of  thine  own  knowledge,  when  thou  bid'st  me  seek 
This  rare  magician?     Hast  thou  looked  on  aught 
Of  all  the  mighty  marvels  he  hath  wrought?" 

"Yea!   I  bethink  me  how,  one  summer's  day, 
He  led  me  through  the  city  gates,  away 
To  the  dark  hollows  'neath  a  lonely  hill: 
So  hushed  the  noontide,  and  so  breathless-still 
The  drowsy  air,  the  voice  of  one  far  stream 
Came  like  thin  whispers  murmuring  in  a  dream ; 
The  blithesome  grasshopper,  his  sense  half  closed 
To  all  his  verdurous  luxury,  reposed 
8* 


9o 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Pendent  upon  the  quivering,  spearlike  grain; 
Steeped  in  the  mellow  sunshine's  noiseless  rain, 
All  Nature  slept;  alone  the  matron  wren, 
From  the  thick  coverts  of  her  thorny  den, 
Teased  the  hot  silence  with  her  twittering  low : 
My  inmost  soul  accordant,  seemed  to  grow 
Languid  and  dumb  within  that  mystic  place. 
At  length  the  Wizard's  hand  across  my  face 
Was  waved  with  gentle  motion ;  a  vague  mist 
Flickered  before  me,  on  a  sudden  kissed 
To  warmth  and  glory  by  an  influence  bright; 
The  strangest  glamour  hovered  o'er  my  sight, 
Wherethrough  I  saw,  methought,  a  palace  proud, 
Crowned  by  a  lightning-veined  thunder-cloud, 
Whose  wreaths  of  vapory  darkness  gleamed  with  eyes 
Of  multitudinous  shifting  phantasies  ; 
Its  pinnacles  like  diamond  spars  outshone 
The  starry  splendors  of  an  Orient  zone ; 
And,  leading  towards  its  lordly  entrance,  rose 
Through  slow  gradations  to  its  marbled  close, 
White  terraces  where  golden  sunflowers  bloomed ; 
Above,  a  ponderous  portal  archway  loomed, 
High-columned,  quaint,  majestical :  we  passed 
Within  that  palace,  gorgeous,  wild,  and  vast. 
Ah,  blessed  saints !  what  wonders  weirdly  blent 
Did  smite  me  with  a  hushed  astonishment ! 
A  troop  of  monsters  couchant  lined  our  path, 
Their  tawny  manes  and  eyes  of  fiery  wrath 
Erect  and  blazing ;  an  unearthly  roar 
Of  fury,  shaking  vaulted  roof  and  floor, 
Burst  from  each  savage,  inarticulate  throat, 
In    sullen    echoings    lost    through    halls    and     courts 
remote. 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  91 

"At  the  far  end  of  glimmering  colonnades 

That  gleamed  gigantic  through  the  dusky  shades, 

Two  mighty  doors  swept  backward  noiselessly ; 

There  heaved  beyond  us  a  vast  laboring  sea; 

Not  vacant,  for  a  stately  vessel  bore 

Swift  down  the  threatening  tides  that  flashed  before, 

Thronged  with  black-bearded  Titans,  such  as  moved 

In  far-off  times  heroic,  well-beloved 

Of  the  old  gods;  there  at  his  stalwart  ease, 

Shouldering  his  knotted  club,  great  Hercules 

Towered,  his  fierce  eyes  touched  to  dewy  light, 

And  rapt  on  Hylas,  who,  serenely  bright, 

With  intense  gaze  uplifted,  tranced  and  mute, 

Heard,  in  ecstatic  reverie,  the  lute 

Of  Orpheus  plaining  to  the  waves  that  bow 

And  dance  subsiding  round  the  blazoned  prow ; 

Till  the  rude  winds  blew  meekly,  and  caressed 

The  mimic  golden  fleeces  o'er  the  crest 

Of  bard  and  warrior,  on  their  secret  quest 

Bound  to  the  groves  of  Colchis;  and  the  bark, 

Round  which  had  frowned  a  threatening  shade  and 

dark, 
Now  seemed    to    thrill,    like    some    proud    sentient 

thing 

That  glories  in  the  prowess  of  its  wing. 
The  gusty  billows  of  that  turbulent  sea 
Their  wild  crests  smoothed,  and  slowly,  pantingly, 
Sunk  to  the  quiet  of  a  charmed  calm ; 
What  odors  Hesperean,  what  rich  balm 
Freight  the  fair  zephyrs,  as  they  shyly  run  • 
O'er  the  lulled  waters  dimpling  in  the  sun  ! 
And  murmurings,  hark  !  soft  as  the  long-drawn  kiss 
Pressed  by  a  young  god-lover  in  his  bliss 


9 2  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

On  lips  immortal,  when  the  world  was  new; 
And,  lo  !  across  the  pure,  pellucid  blue, 
A  barge,  with  silken  sails,  whose  beauteous  crew, 
Winged  Fays  and  Cupids,  curl  their  sportive  arms 
O'er  one,  more  lovely  in  her  noontide  charms 
Than  youngest  nymphs  of  Paphos ;  fragrant  showers 
Of  freshening  roses,  all  luxuriant  flowers 
That  feed  on  Eastern  dews,  their  fairy  bands 
Scatter  about  her  from  white  liberal  hands ; 
While  o'er  the  surface  of  the  dazzling  water, 
Dark-eyed,  mysterious,  many  an  ocean  daughter 
Flashes  a  vanishing  brightness  on  her  way, 
Half  seen  through  tiny  twinklings  of  the  spray; 
And  music  its  full  heart  in  airy  falls 
Outpours,  like  silvery  cascades  down  the  walls 
Of  haunted  rocks,  and  golden  cymbals  ring, 
And  lutelike  measures  on  voluptuous  wing 
Rise  gently  to  the  tranced  heavens,  replying 
From  azure-tinted  deeps  in  a  low  passionate  sighing. 

"Then  were  all  climes,  all  ages,  wildly  blended 

On  blood-red  fields,  wherefrom  shrill  shouts  ascended, 

Of  naked  warriors,  huge  and  swart  of  limb, 

Mixed  with  the  mailed  Grecians'  ominous  hymn, 

Where  mighty  banners  starlike  waved  and  shone 

'Mid  cloven  bucklers  grandly;  and  anon 

Marched  the  stern  Roman  phalanx,  with  a  ring 

And  clash  of  spears,  and  lusty  trumpeting, 

And  steeds  that  neighed  defiance  unto  death, 

And    all    war's    dreadful    pomp    and    hot    devouring 

breath. 

Last,  on  a  sudden,  the  whole  tumult  died, 
The  vision  disappeared  ;  pale,  leaden-eyed, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  93 

Bewildered,  on  the  enchanted  floor  I  sank ; 

When  next  my  wakening  spirit  faintly  drank 

Life's  consciousness,  within  my  lonely  room 

I  sat,  and  round  me  drooped  the  dreary  twilight  gloom." 

"Enough,  good  brother!     By  the  Holy  Rood 
Thy  tale  is  medicinal !   the  black  mood, 
Which  like  a  spiritual  vulture  seized  and  tore 
My  heart-strings,  and  imbued  its  beak  in  gore 
Hot  from  the  soul,  beneath  the  golden  spell 
Of  sovereign  hope  hath  sought  its  native  hell. 
Then,  ho!   for  Orleans  !"     At  the  word  he  sprung 
Light  to  his  feet;  it  seemed  there  scarcely  hung 
One  trace  of  his  long  madness  round  him  now, 
So  blithe  his  smile,  so  bright  his  kindling  brow. 
All  day  they  rode  till  waning  afternoon, 
Through  breezy  copses,  and  the  shadowy  boon 
Of  mightier  woods,  when,  as  the  latest  glance 
Of  sunset,  like  a  level  burnished  lance, 
Smote  their  steel  morions,  sauntering  near  the  town, 
With  thoughtful  mien,  robed  in  his  scholar's  gown, 
They  met  a  keen-eyed  man,  ruddy  and  tall; 
O'er  his  grave  vest  a  beard  of  wavy  fall 
Flowed  like  a  rushing  streamlet,  rippling  down : 
"Welcome!"  he  cried  in  mellow  accents  deep; 
"The  stars  have  warned  me,  and  my  visioned  sleep 
Foretold  your  mission,  gentles.     Curio,  what ! 
Thine  ancient,  loving  comrade  quite  forgot  ? 
Spur  thy  dull  memory,  gossip  !" 

"By  St.  Paul! 

The  learned  clerk,  the  gracious  Artevall, 
Or  glamour's  in  it,"  shouted  Curio;   "yet 
Thou  look'st  as  hale,  as  young,  as  firmly  set 


94  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

In  face  and  form,  as  if  for  thee  old  Time 
Had  stopped  his  flight."     A  lofty  glance,  sublime 
And  swift  as  lightning,  from  the  Magian's  eye 
Darted  some  latent  meaning  grave  and  high. 
He  spake  not,  but  the  twain  he  gently  led 
Where  grassy  pathways  and  fair  meads  were  spread, 
Skirting  the  city  walls,  till  near  them  stood, 
Fronting  the  gloomy  boskage  of  a  wood, 
The  Wizard's  lonely  home.     I  need  not  pause 
To  tell  how  magic  and  the  occult  laws 
Of  sciences  long  dead  that  sage's  lore 
Did  in  the  spectral,  midnight  hours  explore. 
Enough,  that  his  strange  spells  a  marvel  wrought 
Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  credulous  thought. 
At  last  he  said,  "  Sir  Squire,  my  task  is  o'er ; 
Go  when  thou  wilt,  and  view  the  Breton  shore, 
And  thou  shalt  see  a  wide  unwrinkled  strand, 
Smooth  as  thy  lovely  lady's  delicate  hand, 
Washed  by  a  sea  o'er  which  the  halcyon  West 
Broods  like  a  happy  heart  whose  dreams  are  dreams  of 
rest." 


PART    III. 

Meanwhile,  Arviragus,  a  year  before 
Returned  in  honor  from  the  English  shore, 
Led  with  his  faithful  lolene  that  life 
Harmonious,  justly  balanced,  free  from  strife, 
Which  crowns  our  hopes  with  a  true-hearted  wife. 

Ne'er  dreamed  he,  as  she  laid  her  happy  head 
Close  to  his  heart,  what  cloud  of  shame  and  dread 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  95 

Gloomed  o'er  his  placid  roof-tree;  but  content 
To  think  how  nobly  his  late  toils  had  spent 
Their  force  beneath  Death's  gory-dripping  brow 
Through  shocks  of  battle,  a  fresh  laurel  bough 
Plucking  therefrom,  to  flourish  green  and  high 
About  his  war-worn  temples'  majesty, 
Gladly  from  bloodshed,  conflicts,  and  alarms 
He  rested  in  those  white,  encircling  arms, 
And  oft  his  strong  heart  thrilled,  his  eyes  grew  dim, 
To  know,  kind  Heaven !  how  deep  her  love  for  him. 

Thus  month  on  month  the  cheerful  days  went  by, 

Like  caroling  birds  across  an  April  sky, 

A  fairy  sky,  undimmed  by  clouds  or  showers. 

But  on  a  morning,  while  her  favorite  flowers 

lolene  tended,  in  the  garden-walks 

Pausing  to  clip  dead  leaves,  and  prop  the  stalks 

Of  drooping  plants,  herself  more  sweet  and  fair 

Than  any  flower,  the  brightest  that  blushed  there, 

Her  lord  stole  gently  on  her  unaware; 

His  haughty  grace  all  softened,  he  bowed  down 

To  kiss  the  stray  curls  of  her  locks  of  brown, 

Thick-sown    with    threads    of   tangled,   glimmering 

gold: 

"At  need,"  he  said,  "thou  canst  be  calm  and  bold; 
Therefore,  thou  wilt  not  yield  to  foolish  woe 
If  duty  parts  us  briefly.     Wife,  I  go 
To  scourge  some  banded  ruffians  who  of  late 
Assailed  our  peaceful  serfs,  and  our  estate — 
Thou  knowest  it  well — northwest  of  Penmark  town, 
Ravished  with  sword  and  fire.     Thy  lord's  renown, 
Yea,  and  thy  lord,  were  soon  the  scoff  of  all, 
If  in  his  own  fair  fief  such  crimes  befall 


96  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Unscourged  of  justice;  so,  dear  love,  adieu! 
Nor  fear  the  end  of  that  I  have  to  do." 

Thus  spake  the  knight,  who  forthwith  raised  a  shout, 
And  bade  them  bring  his  stalwart  war-horse  out ; 
When,  on  the  sudden,  a  steed,  tall,  jet-black, 
Led  by  a  groom,  came  whinnying  down  the  track, 
'Twixt  the  green  myrtle  hedges;  at  a  bound 
He  vaulted  in  the  selle ;  smilingly  round 
He  turned  to  wave  "farewell"  with  mailed  hand, 
And  then  rode  blithely  down  the  sunlit  land. 

That  evening,  at  the  close  of  vesper-prayer, 
Wandering  along  through  the  still  twilight  air, 
lolene,  somewhat  sad  and  sick  in  mind, 
Met  in  her  homeward  pathway,  low-reclined 
Beneath  the  blasted  branches  of  an  oak, 
Aurelian,  her  wild  lover  of  old  days: 
She  started  backward  in  a  wan  amaze. 
But  he,  uprising  calmly,  bowed  and  spoke : 
"Ha!  thou  recall' st  me,  lady?     I  had  deemed 
These  bitter  years  which  have  so  scarred  and  seamed 
Whate'er  of  grace  I  owned  in  youthful  prime, 
Had  razed  me  from  thy  memory.     See !  a  rime 
Like  that  of  age  hath  touched  my  locks  to  white; 
Yet  never  once, — so  help  me  Heaven ! — by  night 
Or  day,  in  storm  or  brightness,  hath  my  soul 
Veered  but  a  point  from  thee,  its  starry  goal. 
A  mighty  purpose  doth  itself  fulfill, 
Wise  men  have  said.     Lady!   I  love  thee  still, 
And  Love  works  marvels.     Prithee  come  with  me, 
Ay,  quickly  come,  and  thou  thyself  shalt  see 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  97 

I  am  no  falsehood-monger.     Yea,  come,  come  !" 
His  words,  his  sudden  passion,  smote  her  dumb, 
And  from  her  cheeks,  those  delicate  gardens,  wane 
The  rare  twin  roses,  as  when  autumn  rain, 
Fatally  sharp,  sweeps  o'er  some  doomed  domain 
Of  matron  blooms,  and  their  rich  colors  fade 
Like  rainbows  slowly  dying,  shade  by  shade, 
Unto  wan  spectres  of  the  flowers  that  were. 
With  languid  head  and  thoughts  of  prescient  fear, 
Passively  following  where  Aurelian  guides, 
She  hears  anon  the  surge  and  rush  of  tides 
On  the  seashore,  and  feels  the  freshening  spray 
Bedew  her  brow.      "Lady,  look  forth,  and  say 
If  to  a  love  unquenched,  unquenchable, 
Eternal  Nature  yields  not;  its  strong  spell 
Hath  toiled  for  me,  till  the  rocks  rooted  under 
Those  heaving  waters  have  been  rent  asunder, 
And  the  wide  spaces  of  the  ocean  plain, 
Down  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  wild  Bretaigne, 
Rise  calmly  glorious  in  the  day-god's  beam. 
Look,  look  thy  fill!   it  is  no  vanishing  dream : 
Lo  !  now  I  claim  thy  promise  /' ' 

A  keen  gleam 

Shot  its  victorious  radiance  o'er  his  brow. 
But  she,  bewildered,  tremulous,  shrinking  low, 
Her  clinched  hands  pale  even  to  the  finger-tips, 
Pressed  on  her  blinded  eyes  and  faltering  lips, 
Sued  in  a  voice  like  wailing  wind  that  breaks 
From  aspen  coverts  over  lonely  lakes, 
In  the  shut  heart  of  immemorial  dells, — 
A  fitful,  sobbing  voice,  whose  anguish  swells, 
Burdened  with  deep  upyearning  supplication, 
Coldly  across  his  evil  exultation. 
9 


98  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

She  pleads  for  brief  delay,  with  frenzied  pain 
Grasping  at  some  dim  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Shadowing  a  vague  deliverance.      "As  thou  wilt," 
He  answered,  slowly.      "Well  I  know  the  guilt 
Of  broken  vows  can  never  rest  on  thee! 
Pass  by  unhurt!"     Mutely  she  turned  to  flee, 
Nor  paused  until  her  chambered  privacy 
She  reached  with  panting  sides,  pallid  as  death, 
And  gasping  with  short,  anguished  sobs  for  breath. 
"Caught  am  I,  trapped  like  a  poor  fluttering  bird, 
Or  dappled  youngling  from  the  innocent  herd 
Lured  to  a  pitfall !     Yet  such  oath  as  this 
Were  surely  void?     If  not,  he  still  shall  miss — 
Whate'er  betide — his  long-expected  bliss! 
Better  pure-folded  arms,  and  stainless  sleep 
Where  the  gray-drooping  willow-branches  weep, 
Than  meet  a  fate  so  hideous !     Let  me  think ! 
Others, — pure  wives,  brave  virgins,  on  the  brink 
Of  shame  and  ruin,  have  struck  home  and  fled, 
To  find  unending  quiet  with  the  dead." 

Borne  down  as  by  a  demon's  hand  which  pressed 

Invisible,  but  stifling,  on  her  breast, 

With  brain  benumbed,  yet  burning,  and  a  sense 

Of  utter,  wearied,  desperate  impotence, — 

Her  forlorn  glance  around  the  darkening  room 

Roving  in  helpless  search,  from  out  the  gloom 

Caught  the  blue  glitter  of  a  half-sheathed  blade, 

A  small  but  trenchant  steel,  whose  lustre  played 

Balefully  bright,  and  like  a  serpent's  eye 

Fixed  on  her  with  malign  expectancy, 

Drew  her  perforce  towards  Death, — that  death  which 

seemed 
The  sole,  stern  means  through  which  her  fame,  redeemed, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY. 


99 


Should  soar  in  spiritual  beauty  o'er  the  tomb 
Wherein  might  rest  her  body's  mouldering  bloom. 

Ah,  me !  the  looks  distraught,  the  passionate  care, 

The  whole  wild  scene,  its  misery  and  despair, 

Come  back  like  scenes  of  yesterday.     Half  bowed 

Her  queenly  form,  and  the  pent  grief  allowed 

A  moment's  freedom,  shakes  her  to  the  core, 

The  inmost  seat  of  reason.      "All  is  o'er," 

She  murmurs,  as  her  slender  fingers  feel 

The  deadly  edge  of  the  cold  shimmering  steel. 

At  once  her  swift  arm  flashes  to  its  height, 

While  the  poised  death  hangs  quivering,  and  her  sight 

Grows  dazed  and  giddy :  when  from  far,  so  far 

It  sounded  like  the  weird  voice  of  a  star, 

Muffled  by  distance,  yet  distinct  and  deep, 

About  her  in  the  terrible  silence  creep 

Accents  that  seize  as  with  a  bodily  force 

On  her  white  arm  suspended,  and  its  course 

To  fatal  issues,  with  arresting  will 

Hold  rigid,  till  supine  it  drops  and  still, 

Back  to  its  drooping  level,  and  a  clang 

Of  the  freed  steel  through  all  the  chamber  rang 

Sharply,  and  something  shuddered  down  the  air 

Like  wings  of  baffled  fiends  passing  in  fierce  despair. 

A  warning  blent  of  prescient  wrath  and  prayer 
Those  accents  seemed,  wherethrough  a  palpable  dread 
Ran  coldly  shivering.  "  Pause,  pause,  pause ! ' '  they  said  ; 
"Bar  not  thy  hopes  'gainst  chance  of  happier  fate! 
The  circuit  vast  which  rounds  life's  dial-plate 
Hath  many  lights  and  shades;  its  hand  which  lowers 
So  threatening  now,  may  move  to  golden  hours, 


loo  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

And  thou  on  this  sad  time  may'st  look  like  one 
Smiling  on  mortal  woes  from  some  unsetting  sun." 

Motionless,  overcome  by  hushing  awe, 

She  heard  the  mystic  voice,  and  dreamed  she  saw, 

Just  o'er  the  dubious  borders  of  the  light, 

A  wavering  apparition,  scarce  more  bright 

Than  one  faint  moon-ray,  through  the  misty  tears 

Of  clouded  evenings  seen  on  breezeless  mountain  meres. 

Mistlike  it  waned;  but  in  her  heart  of  hearts 

The  solemn  counsel  sank:  with  guilty  starts, 

She  thought  how  near,   through    Grief's   bewildering 

blight, 

How  near  to  death,  to  death  and  shame,  this  night 
Her  reckless  soul  had  strayed.     Yet  short-lived  hope 
Moved  hour  by  hour  through  paths  of  narrowing  scope, 
As,  day  by  day,  her  term  of  grace  passed  by, 
Like  phantom  birds  across  a  phantom  sky: 
Her  lord  still  absent,  and  Aurelian  bound 
(For  thus  he  wrote  her)  to  one  weary  round, 
Morn  after  morn,  of  pacings  to  and  fro, 
Within  the  wooded  garden-walks  below 
The  city's  southward  portals.      "There,"  said  he, 
"Each  day,  and  all  day  long,  impatiently 
I  wait  thy  will." 

As  when  in  dewy  spring, 
'Mid  the  moist  herbage  closely  nestling, 
Ofttimes  we  see  the  hunted  partridge  cling, 
Panting  and  scared,  to  the  thick-covering  grass, 
The  while  above  her  couch  doth  darkly  pass 
What  seemeth  the  shadow  of  a  giant  wing, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  IQ 

And  she,  more  lowly,  with  a  cowering  stoop, 

Shivers,  expecting  the  fell,  fiery  swoop 

Of  the  gaunt  hawk,  that  corsair  of  the  breeze, 

And  feels  beforehand  his  sharp  talons  seize 

And  rend  her  tender  vitals;  so  at  home, 

lolene,  trembling  at  the  stroke  to  come, 

Touched  by  the  lurid  shadow  of  her  doom, 

Lingered ;  until,  upon  a  sunny  dawn, 

Her  lord  returning,  gayly  up  the  lawn 

Urged  his  blithe  courser,  and,  dismounting,  came 

Upon  her,  warmly  glowing,  all  aflame 

With  hope  and  love.     But  as  her  dreary  eyes 

Were  turned  on  his,  a  quick,  disturbed  surprise, 

And  then  a  terror,  smote  him,  and  the  voice 

All  jubilant,  full-breathed  to  say,  "Rejoice, 

Our  foes  are  slain  !"  clave  stammering  in  his  throat. 

But  she,  her  loose,  disheveled  locks  afloat 

Round  the  fair-sloping  shoulders,  her  hands  clasped 

About  his  mailed  knees,  brokenly  gasped 

Her  anguish  forth,  and  told  her  sorrowful  tale. 

Dizzy  and  mute,  and  as  the  marble  pale 

Whereon  he  leaned,  unto  the  desperate  close 

The  knight  heard  all,  locked  in  a  cold  repose 

More  dread  than  stormiest  passion;  life  and  strength 

Seemed  slowly  ebbing  from  him,  till  at  length 

His  soul,  like  one  that  walks  the  fatal  sand 

(Whose  treacherous  smoothness  looks  a  solid  strand, 

But  tempts  to  ruin),  felt  all  earth  grow  dim, 

And  round  him  saw,  as  in  a  chaos,  swim 

Joy's  fair  horizon  melting  in  the  cloud. 

But  soon  his  stalwart  will,  rugged  and  proud, 

Woke  lionlike  to  action;  a  swift  flush 

Rushed  like  a  sunset  river's  reddening  glow 

n* 


102  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

O'er  the  tempestuous  blackness  of  his  brow, 
Pregnant  with  thunder;  through  the  dismal  hush, 
His  pitiless  voice,  sharp-echoing  round  about 
The  clanging  court,  leaped  like  a  falchion  out. 

"Thou  hast  played  with  honor  as  a  juggler's  ball ; 
God  strikes  thee  from  thy  balance,  and  the  thrall 
Art  thou,  henceforth,  of  one  vainglorious  deed. 
What !  shall  we  plant  with  rash  caprice  the  seed 
Of  bitterness,  nor  look  for  some  harsh  fruit 
To  spring  untimely  from  its  poisonous  root? 
What !  a  lewd  spark,  a  perfumed  popinjay, 
Dares  in  the  broad-browed  honest  gaze  of  day, 
To  dash  a  foul  thought,  like  the  hideous  spray 
Of  Hell,  right  in  thy  forehead, — and  thy  hand, 
Which  should  have  towered  as  if  the  levin-brand 
Of  scorn  and  judgment  armed  it,  but  a  bland 
Dismissal  signs  him !  not  one  hint  which  tells 
Thy  lord,  meantime,  what  loathsome  secret  dwells 
Here,  by  his  hearthstone,  muffled  up,  concealed, 
And  like  a  corse  corrupting,  till,  revealed 
By  vengeful  doom,  its  pestilent  odor  steals 
Outward,  while  all  the  wholesome  blood  congeals 
To  a  chill  horror,  and  the  air  grows  vile, 
And  even  the  blessed  sun  a  death's-head  smile 
Assumes  in  our  distempered  fantasy? 
By   Heaven !     this  withering  curse   which    hangs  o'er 

thee, 

O  lolene!" — but  here  his  angry  voice 
Broke  short, — "There  is  no  choice,"  he  moaned,  "no 

choice. 

Yea,  wife !   may  Christ  adjudge  me  if  I  lie, 
To  endless,  as  now  keen  calamity, 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  IO3 

But  through  this  troublous  gloom  my  mind  discerns 
One  lonely  light  to  guide  us;  lo,  it  burns 
Lurid,  yet  clear,  by  whose  fierce  flame  I  see — 
Ah,  grief  malign  !  ah,  bitter  destiny ! — 
As  if  God's  own  right  hand  the  blazing  pain 
And  fiery  bale  did  stamp  on  soul  and  brain, 
These  terms  of  doom : 

Shame  and  despair  for  both, 

Sorrow  and  heartbreak  !     Through  all,  keep  thine  oath, 
Thou  woman,  self -involved,  s  elf- lost ;  and  so 
Face  the  black  front  of  thi's  tremendous  woe  /' ' 

She  bowed  as  if  a  blast  of  sudden  wind, 
Breathing  full  winter,  smote  her  cold  and  blind; 
Then  as  one  wandering  in  a  soul-eclipse, 
Feebly  she  rose,  and  with  her  quivering  lips 
Kissed  her  pale  lord,  stifling  one  desolate  cry. 
Anon  she  moved  around  him  noiselessly, 
Bent  on  the  small,  sweet  offices  of  love; 
And  sometimes  pausing,  she  would  glance  above 
With  tearless  eyes,  for  solemn  griefs  like  this, 
Blighting  at  once  both  root  and  flowers  of  bliss, 
Are  arid  as  the  desert,  and  in  vain 
Thirst  for  the  cooling  freshness  of  the  rain. 
Fitfully  led  from  treasured  nook  to  nook 
Of  her  dear  home,  she  walked  with  far-off  look, 
And  absent  fingers,  plying  household  tasks; 
Bravely  her  sunless  wretchedness  she  masks 
Through  moments  deemed  unending  while  they  passed   - 
When  passed,  a  flickering  point !    Hark  !    The  doomed 
hour  at  last ! 


104  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

An  afternoon  it  was,  stirless  and  calm; 

From  field  and  garden-close  rare  breaths  of  balm 

Made  the  air  moist  and  odorous.     Nature  lay 

Divinely  peaceful ;  only  far  away 

In  the  broad  zenith,  a  strange  cloud  unfurled 

Its  boding  banner  weirdly  o'er  the  world; 

Whilst  lolene,  her  veiled  head  sadly  bowed, 

Passed  through  the  gay  thorpe  and  its  motley  crowd, 

To  where  a  great  wall  towered  this  side  a  wood. 

All  things  her  mazed,  chaotic  fancy  viewed 

Looked  dreamlike;  even  Aurelian  lingering  there, 

To  meet  her  in  the  shadiest  forest-lair, 

Gleamed  ghostly  dim,  a  dreadful  ghost  in  sooth, — 

For  still  a  hideous  trance  appeared  to  press 

Upon  her,  and  a  nightmare  helplessness, — 

To  whom  she  knelt  in  sad  mechanic  guise, 

Pleading  for  mercy  with  such  piteous  eyes, 

And  such  soft  flow  of  self-bewailing  ruth, 

Aurelian  felt  his  passion's  quivering  chords 

Stilled  at  the  touch  of  those  pathetic  words, 

That  glance  of  wild,  appealing  agonies. 

Stirred  by  his  nobler  nature's  grave  command 

(That  fair,  indwelling  angel  sweet  and  grand, 

Born  to  transmute  the  worn  and  blasted  soil 

Of  sinful  hearts  by  his  celestial  toil 

To  Eden  places  and  the  haunts  of  God), 

He  stooped,  and,  courteous,  raised  her  from  the  sod, 

And  whispered  closely  in  her  eager  ear 

Words  which  his  guardian  genius  smiled  to  hear; 

Words  of  release,  and  balmy-breathing  cheer. 

And  while  his  softening  gaze  a  grateful  mist 

Feelingly  dimmed,  with  knightly  grace  he  kissed 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  105 

Her  drooping  forehead,  and  loose  tressses  thrown 
In  rippling  waves  adown  the  heaving  zone; 
Once,  twice,  he  kissed  her  thus,  with  reverence  meek; 
But  when  her  brimming  eyes  uplifted,  seek 
Aurelian  now,  with  eloquent  looks  to  tell 
What  tenderest  words  could  not  convey  so  well, 
She  only  sees  the  tree- stems  tall  and  brown, 
The  golden  leaves  come  faintly  fluttering  down, 
And  o'nly  hears  the  wind  of  sunset  moan : 
Midmost  the  twilight  wood  the  lady  stands  alone. 

Stung  by  his  misery  into  frenzied  motion, 
Her  lord  meantime  beside  the  restless  ocean 
fRoamed,  hearkening  to  the  mournful  undertone 
|Of  the  sea's  mighty  heart,  which  touched  his  own, 
O  God,  how  sadly !  when  abruptly  lifting 
His  furrowed  b.row  long  fixed  upon  the  shifting 
And  mimic  whirlwinds  of  loose  sand  that  flew 
Hither  and  thither,  as  the  brief  winds  blew 
At  fitful  whiles  from  o'er  the  watery  waste, 
He  saw,  as  if  she  spurned  the  earth  in  haste, 
His  gentle  wife  returning,  with  a  face 
Whereon  there  dwelt  no  shadow  of  disgrace; 
A  face  that  seemed  transfigured  in  the  light 
Of  Paradise,  it  shone  so  softly  bright. 
Beautiful  ever,  round  her  now  there  hovered 
A  subtle,  new-born  glory,  which  discovered 
A  shape  so  dazzling,  you  had  thought  the  plume 
Of  some  archangel's  pinion  cast  its  bloom 
About  her,  and  the  veil  of  heaven  withdrawn, 
She  viewed  the  mystic  streams,  the  sapphire  dawn, 
And  heard  the  choirs  celestial,  tier  on  tier 
Uptowering  to  the  uttermost  golden  sphere, 


106  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Sing  of  a  vanquished  dread,  a  blest  release, 
The  effluence  and  the  solemn  charm  of  peace. 

Evening  closed  round  them;  o'er  the  placid  reach 
Stretching  far  northward  of  the  sea-girt  beach, 
They  passed,  while  night's  first  planet  in  the  sky 
Faltered  from  out  the  stillness  timidly, 
And  perfumed  breezes  rustled  murmuring  by, 
'Twixt  the  grim  headlands  up  the  glens  to  die, 
And  white-winged  sea-birds,  with  a  long-drawn  cry 
Which  spake  of  homeward  flight  and  billowy  nest, 
Glanced  through  the  sunset  down  the  wavering  West. 

Evening  closed  o'er  them,  mellowing  into  dark; 
Along  the  horizon's  edge,  a  tiny  spark, 
Dull-red  at  first,  but  broadening  to  a  white 
And  tranquil  orb  of  silvery-streaming  light, 
Slowly  the  Night  Queen  fair  her  heaven  ascends: 
The  outlines  of  those  loving  forms  she  blends 
Into  one  luminous  shade,  which  seems  to  float, 
Mingle  and  melt  in  shining  mists  remote ; 
Type  of  two  perfect  lives  whose  single  soul 
Outbreathes  a  cordial  music,  sweet  and  whole, 
One  will,  one  mind,  one  joy-encircled  fate, 
And  one  winged  faith  that  soars  beyond  the  heavenly 
gate. 


My  song  which  now  hath  long  flowed  unperplexed 
Through  scenes  so  various,  calm  as  heaven,  or  vexed 
By  gusty  passion,  reaches  the  lone  shore. 
Ghostlike  and  strange,  of  silence  and  old  dreams; 
Far-off  its  weird  and  wandering  whisper  seems 
Like  airs  that  faint  o'er  untracked  oceans  hoar 


THE    WIFE    OF  BRITTANY.  107 

On  haunted  midnights,  when  the  moon  is  low. 
And  now  'tis  ended:   long,  yea,  long  ago, 
Lost  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
The  dust  of  these  dead  loves  hath  passed  away ; 
Still,  still,  methinks,  a  soft  ethereal  ray 
Illumes  the  tender  record,  and  makes  bright 
Its  heart-deep  pathos  with  a  marvelous  light, 
So  that  whate'er  of  frenzied  grief  and  pain 
Marred  the  pure  currents  of  the  crystal  strain, 
Transfigured  shines  through  fancy's  mellowing  trance, 
Touching   with    golden    haze    the   quaint    old-world 
romance. 

NOTE.— Of  "The  Frankleines  Tale,"  the  plot  of  which  has  been 
followed  in  "  The  Wife  of  Brittany,"  Richard  Henry  Home,  the  author 
of  "  Orion,"  says  :  "  It  is  a  noble  story,  perfect  in  its  moral  purpose, 
and  chivalrous  self-devotion  to  a  feeling  of  truth  and  honor;  but  it 
would  have  been  more  satisfactory  in  an  intellectual  sense  had  a  dis 
tinction  been  made  between  a  sincere  pledge  of  faith  and  a  '  merry 
bond'!" 

This  may  at  first  seem  incontrovertible,  but  we  should  remember 
that  Chaucer,  who,  without  pretension,  and  through  the  medium  of  his 
humor,  satire,  and  pathos,  was  the  great  moralist  and  preacher  of  his 
time,  desired  in  "The  Frankleines  Tale"  to  show  the  danger  of  too 
lightly  treating,  from  whatever  motive,  such  solemn  obligations  as 
those  connected  with  a  wife's  chastity  and  honor. 

Moreover,  in  the  mediaeval  age,  a  superstitious  sanctity  was  often 
made  to  attach  to  one's  word,  no  matter  how  unthinkingly  it  may  have 
been  given ;  nay,  it  was  maintained  by  certain  strict  formalists,  that 
even  an  extorted  oath  was,  under  some  conditions,  binding!  It  will, 
therefore,  be  perceived,  that  in  allowing  so  much  importance  to  a 
"merry  bond,"  and  associating  with  it  such  grave  trials,  the  poet  was 
true  both  to  the  time  depicted  and  to  human  nature,  as  influenced  by 
morbid  and  conventional  ideas  of  duty. 


io8  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


THE   RIVER. 

["  Man's  life  is  like  a  River,  which  likewise  hath  its  Seasons  or 
phases  of  progress :  first,  its  Spring  rise,  gentle  and  beautiful ;  next,  its 
Summer,  of  eventful  maturity,  mixed  calm,  and  storm,  followed  by 
Autumnal  decadence,  and  mists  of  Winter,  after  which  cometh  the 
all-embracing  Sea,  type  of  that  mystery  we  call  Eternity !"] 

UP  among  the  dew-lit  fallows 

Slight  but  fair  it  took  its  rise, 
And  through  rounds  of  golden  shallows 

Brightened  under  broadening  skies; 
While  the  delicate  wind  of  morning 

Touched  the  waves  to  happier  grace, 
Like  a  breath  of  love's  forewarning, 

Dimpling  o'er  a  virgin  face, — 
Till  the  tides  of  that  rare  river 

Merged  and  mellowed  into  one, 
Flashed  the  shafts  from  sundawn's  quiver, 

Backward  to  the  sun. 

Royal  breadths  of  sky-born  blushes 

Burned  athwart  its  billowy  breast, — 
But  beyond  those  roseate  flushes 

Shone  the  snow-white  swans  at  rest; 
Round  in  graceful  flights  the  swallows 

Dipped  and  soared,  and  soaring  sang, 
And  in  bays  and  reed-bound  hollows, 

How  earth's  wild,  sweet  voices  rang! 
Till  the  strong,  swift,  glorious  river 

Seemed  with  mightier  pulse  to  run, 
Thus  to  roll  and  rush  forever, 

Laughing  in  the  sun. 


THE   RIVER.  109 

Nay ;  a  something  born  of  shadow 

Slowly  crept  the  landscape  o'er, — 
Something  weird  o'er  wave  and  meadow, 

Something  cold  o'er  stream  and  shore; 
While  on  birds  that  gleamed  or  chanted, 

Stole  gray  gloom  and  silence  grim, 
And  the  troubled  wave-heart  panted, 

And  the  smiling  heavens  waxed  dim, 
And  from  far  strange  spaces  seaward, 

Out  of  dreamy  cloud-lands  dun, 
Came  a  low  gust  moaning  leaward, 

Chilling  leaf  and  sun. 

Then,  from  gloom  to  gloom  intenser, 

On  the  laboring  streamlet  rolled, 
Where  from  cloud-racks  gathered  denser, 

Hark !  the  ominous  thunder  knolled ! 
While  like  ghosts  that  flit  and  shiver, 

Down  the  mists,  from  out  the  blast, 
Spectral  pinions  crossed  the  river, — 

Spectral  voices  wailing  passed  ! 
Till  the  fierce  tides,  rising  starkly, 

Blended,  towering  into  one 
Mighty  wall  of  blackness,  darkly 

Quenching  sky  and  sun  ! 

Thence,  to  softer  scenes  it  wandered, 

Scents  of  flowers  and  airs  of  balm, 
And  methought  the  streamlet  pondered, 

Conscious  of  the  blissful  calm; 
Slow  it  wound  now,  slow  and  slower 

By  still  beach  and  ripply  bight, 
And  the  voice  of  waves  sank  lower, 

Laden,  languid  with  delight; 

10 


no  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

In  and  out  the  cordial  river 

Strayed  in  peaceful  curves  that  won 

Glory  from  the  great  Life- Giver, 
Beauty  from  the  sun  ! 

Thence  again  with  quaintest  ranges, 

On  the  fateful  streamlet  rolled 
Through  unnumbered,  nameless  changes, 

Shade  and  sunshine,  gloom  and  gold, 
Till  the  tides,  grown  sad  and  weary, 

Longed  to  meet  the  mightier  main, 
And  their  low-toned  miserere 

Mingled  with  his  grand  refrain ; 
Oh,  the  languid,  lapsing  river, 

Weak  of  pulse  and  soft  of  tune, — 
Lo !   the  sun  hath  set  forever, 

Lo !  the  ghostly  moon  ! 

But  thenceforth  through  moon  and  starlight 

Sudden-swift  the  streamlet's  sweep; 
Yearning  for  the  mystic  far-light, 

Pining  for  the  solemn  deep; 
While  the  old  strength  gathers  o'er  it, 

While  the  old  voice  rings  sublime, 
And  in  pallid  mist  before  it, 

Fade  the  phantom  shows  of  time, — 
Till  with  one  last  eddying  quiver, 

All  its  checkered  journey  done, 
Seaward  breaks  the  ransomed  river, 

Goal  and  grave  are  won ! 


THE   LITTLE   SAINT.  TII 


THE   NEST. 

AT  the  poet's  life-core  lying 
Is  a  sheltered  and  sacred  nest, 

Where,  as  yet,  unfledged  for  flying, 
His  callow  fancies  rest : 

Fancies,  and  Thoughts,  and  Feelings, 
Which  the  mother  Psyche  breeds, 

And  Passions  whose  dim  revealings 
But  torture  their  hungry  needs. 

Yet, — there  cometh  a  summer  splendor 
When  the  golden  brood  wax  strong, 

And,  with  voices  grand  or  tender, 
They  rise  to  the  heaven  of  song. 


THE   LITTLE   SAINT. 

AT  the  calm  matin  hour 

I  see  her  bend  in  prayer, 
As  bends  a  virgin  flower 

Kissed  by  the  summer  air: 
O  !   meek  her  downcast  eyes ! 

But  the  sweet  lips  wear  a  smile; 
How  hard  the  little  angel  tries 

To  be  serious  all  the  while ! 


II2  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

I  tell  her  'tis  not  right 

To  be  half  grave,  half  gay, 
Imploring  in  Heaven's  sight 

A  blessing  on  the  day : 
She  hears,  and  looks  devout 

(Although  it  gives  her  pain)  ; 
Still,  when  the  ritual's  almost  out, 

She's  sure  to  smile  again! 

She  shocks  her  maiden  aunt, 

Who  thinks  it  a  disgrace 
That — do  her  best — she  can't 

Give  her  a  solemn  face : 
She'll  scold,  and  rate,  and  fume, 

And  lecture  hour  by  hour, 
Until  she  makes  the  very  room 

Look  passionate  and  sour ! 

Alack!  'tis  all  in  vain! 

Soon  as  the  sermon's  done, 
My  fairy  blooms  again, 

Like  a  rosebud  in  the  sun; 
I  cannot  damp  her  mirth, 

I  will  not  check  her  play, — 
Is  innocent  joy  so  rife  on  earth 

Hers  should  not  have  full  sway? 

I  asked  her  yester-night, 

Why,  when  prayer  was  made, 
Her  brow  of  cordial  light 

Scarce  caught  one  serious  shade. 
"Father,"  she  said,  "you  love 

Better  to  meet  me  glad, 
And  so,  I  thought,  the  Christ  above 

Might  grieve  to  see  me  sad !" 


STORY  OF  GLAUCUS    THE    THESSALIAN. 


THE  STORY  OF  GLAUCUS  THE  THESS  ALLAN.* 

LIST  to  this  legend,  which  an  antique  poet 

Hath  left  among  the  musty  tomes  of  eld, 

Like  a  flushed  rosebud  pressed  between  the  leaves 

Of  some  worn,  dark-hued  volume.     What  a  light 

Of  healthful  bloom  about  it !     What  an  air 

Seems  breathing  round  its  delicate  petals  still! 

Wilt  thou  not  take  it,  lady, — thou,  whose  face 

Is  lovely  as  a  lost  Arcadian  dream, — 

And  place  it  next  thy  heart,  and  keep  it  fresh 

With  balmy  dews  thy  gentle  spirit  sends 

Up  to  the  deep  founts  of  the  tenderest  eyes 

That  e'er  have  shone,  I  think,  since  in  some  dell 

Of  Argos  and  enchanted  Thessaly, 

The  poet,  from  whose  heart-lit  brain  it  came, 

Murmured  this  record  unto  her  he  loved? 

THE  STORY. 

Glaucus,  a  young  Thessalian,  while  the  dawn 
Of  a  fresh  spring-tide  brightened  copse  and  lawn, 
Sauntered,  with  lingering  steps  and  dreamy  mood, 
Adown  the  fragrant  pathway  of  a  wood 

Which  skirted  his  small  homestead  pleasantly, 

And  there  he  saw  a  tall,  majestic  tree, 

-  The  elements  of  this  story  are  to  be  found  in  Apollonius  Rhodius, 
and  Leigh  Hunt  has  embodied  them  in  a  graceful  prose  legend, 
lo* 


H4  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

An  oak  of  untold  summers,  whose  broad  crown, 

Quivering  as  if  in  some  slow  agony, 

And  trembling  inch  by  inch  forlornly  down, 

Threatened,  for  want  of  a  kind  propping  care, 

To  leave  its  breezy  realm  of  golden  air, 

And  from  its  leafy  heights,  with  shriek  and  groan, 

Like  some  proud  forest  empire  overthrown, 

Measure  its  vast  bulk  on  the  greensward  lone. 

Glaucus  beheld  and  pitied  it.     He  saw 

The  approaching  ruin  with  a  touch  of  awe, 

No  less  than  genial  sympathy, — for  men, 

Jn  those  old  times,  pierced  with  a  wiser  ken 

To  the  deep  soul  of  Nature,  and  from  thence 

Drew  a  serene  and  mystic  influence, 

Which  thrilled  all  life  to  music.     Therefore  he 

Called  on  his  slaves,  and  bade  them  prop  the  tree. 

Musing  he  passed  to  a  still  lonelier  place 

In  the  dim  forest,  by  this  act  of  grace 

Lightened  and  cheered,  when,  from   the  copse-wood 

nigh, 

There  dawned  upon  his  vision  suddenly 
A  shape  more  fair  and  lustrous  than  the  star 
Which  rides  o'er  Cloudland  on  her  sapphire  car 
When  vesper  winds  are  fluting  solemnly. 
"Glaucus,"  she  said,  in  tones  whose  liquid  flow, 
Mellow,  harmonious,  passionately  low, 
Stole  o'er  his  spirit  with  a  strange,  wild  thrill, 
"I  am  the  Nymph  of  that  fair  tree  thy  will 
Hath  saved  from  ruin ;  but  for  thee  my  breath 
Had  vanished  mistlike, — my  glad  eyes  in  death 
Been  sealed  for  evermore.     Yes !  but  for  thee 
I  must  have  lost  that  half-divinity 


STORY  OF  GLAUCUS   THE    THESSALIAN.      11 

Whose  secret  essence,  spiritually  fine, 
Hath  warmed  my  veins  like  Hebe's  heavenly -wine. 
No  more,  no  more  amid  my  rippling  hair 
Could  I  have  felt  soft  fingers  of  the  Air 
Dallying  at  dawn  or  twilight,— on  my  cheek 
Have  felt  the  sun  rest  with  a  rosy-streak, 
Pulsing  in  languor;  nor  with  pleasant  pain 
Drooped  in  the  cool  arms  of  the  loving  Rain, 
That  wepf  its  soul  out  on  my  bosom  fair. 
But  now,  in  long,  calm,  blissful  days  to  be, 
This  life  of  mine  shall  lapse  deliciously 
Through  all  the  seasons  of  the  bounteous  year ; 
Beneath  my  shade  mortals  shall  sit,  and  hear 
Benignant  whispers  in  the  shimmering  leaves; 
And  sometimes,  upon  warm  and  odorous  eves, 
Lovers  shall  bring  me  offerings  of  sweet  things,— 
Honey  and  fruit, — and  dream  they  mark  the  wings 
Of  Cupids  fluttering  through  the  oak-boughs  hoar. 
All  this  I  owe  thee,  Glaucus, — all,  and  more ! 
Ask  what  thou  wilt ! — thou  shalt  not  ask  in  vain  !" 

Then  Glaucus,  gazing  in  her  glorious  eyes, 
And  rallying  from  his  first  unmanned  surprise, 
Emboldened,  too,  by  her  soft  looks,  which  drew 
A  spell  about  his  heart  like  fire  and  dew 
Mingled  and  melting  in  a  love-charm  bland, — 
And  by  the  twinkling  of  her  moon-white  hand, 
That  seemed  to  beckon  coyly  to  her  side, 
And  by  her  maiden  sweetness  deified, 
And  something  that  he  deemed  a  dear  unrest 
Heaving  the  unveiled  billows  of  her  breast — 
(As  if  her  preternatural  part,  as  free 
And  wild  as  any  nursling  of  the  lea, 


1 1 6  LE  GENDS  AND  L  YRICS, 

Yearned  wholly  downward  to  humanity) — 
Emboldened  thus,  I  say,  Glaucus  replied : 
"O  fairest  vision!  be  my  love, — my  bride!" 


Over  her  face  there  passed  an  airy  flush, 
The  roseate  shade,  the  twilight  of  a  blush, 
Ere  the  low-whispering  answer  pensively 
Stirred  the  dim  silence  in  its  tranced  hush. 
"Thy  suit  is  granted,  Glaucus!  though  perchance 
A  peril  broods  o'er  this,  thy  bright  romance, 
Like  a  lone  cloudlet  o'er  a  lake  that's  fair. 
When  the  high  noon,  flaunting  so  hotly  now 
Fades  into  evening,  thou  may'st  meet  me  here, 
Just  in  the  cool  of  this  rill-shadowing  bough; 
My  favorite  Bee,  my  fairy  of  the  flowers, 
Shall  bid  thee  come  to  that  pure  tryst  of  ours." 

Who  now  so  proud  as  Glaucus?     "I  have  won," 
Lightly  he  said,  "the  marvelous  benison 
Of  love  from  her  in  whose  soft-folding  arms 
Gods  might  forget  Elysium !     O  !  her  charms 
Are  perfect, — perfect  heaven  and  perfect  earth, 
Blest  and  commingled  in  one  exquisite  birth 
Of  beauty, — and  for  me !     I  know  not  why, 
But  rosy  Eros  ever  seems  to  fly 
Gayly  before  me,  armed  for  victory, 
In  every  pleasant  love-strife!"     On  this  theme 
Deeply  he  dwelt,  till  a  vain  self-esteem 
Obscured  his  worthier  spirit.     Thus  he  went 
Out  from  the  haunted  wood,  his  nature  toned 
Down  to  the  common  daylight,  disenzoned 
Of  all  its  rare,  ethereal  ravishment. 


STORY  OF  GLAUCUS   THE    THESSALIAN.      n 

Still  in  this  mood,  he  sought  the  neighboring  town, 

Met  with  some  gay  young  comrades,  and  sat  down 

To  dice  and  wassail.     All  that  morn  he  played, 

And  quaffed,  and  sang,  and  feasted,  till  the  shade 

Of  evening  o'er  earth's  forehead  cast  a  gloom; 

And  still  he  played,  when  on  his  ear  the  boom 

Of  a  swift,  shining,  yellow-breasted  Bee 

Rung  out  its  small  alarum.     Teasingly 

The  insect  hummed  about  him,  went  and  came, 

And  like  a  tiny  hell  of  circling  flame 

And  discord  seemed  to  Glaucus,  who  at  last 

Struck  at  the  winged  torment  testily. 

The  Bee — poor  go-between  ! — in  either  thigh 

Cruelly  maimed,  with  feeble  flutterings,  passed 

Back  to  its  home  amid  the  foliaged  bloom. 

At  length,  in  two  most  fortunate  throws,  the  game 

Was  won  by  Glaucus !     With  triumphant  smile 

He  seized  and  pocketed  a  glittering  pile 

Of  new  sestertii.      "Ay!   'tis  e'er  the  same," 

He  muttered;   "dice  or  women,  I  must  win  ! 

But  hold  ! — by  Venus !   'twere  a  burning  sin, 

And  false  to  my  fond  wild  flower  of  the  wood 

Longer  to  dally  here.     O  Fortune !  good, 

Kind  mistress,  speed  me  still !     Would  that  each  heel 

Were  plumed  like  happy  Hermes' !"     His  late  zeal 

Spurred  the  youth  onward  to  the  place  of  tryst, — 

One  final  burst  of  sunset — amethyst, 

Ruby,  and  topaz — blazed  among  the  boughs, 

Whence  a  sad  voice, — "Breaker  of  solemn  vows, 

What  dost  thou  here  ?     Thine  hour  has  past  for  aye  f ' 

Glaucus,  with  startled  eyes,  peered  through  the  sway 

Of  moistened  fern  and  thicket,  but  his  view 


Il8  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Rested  alone  on  vacancy,  or  caught, 
Swift  as  the  shifting  glamour  of  a  thought, 
Only  the  golden  and  evanishing  ray, 
Which,  softened  by  cool  sparktes  of  the  dew, 
Flashed  through  the  half-closed  lids  of  weary  Day. 

"Here  am  I,"  said  the  voice,  so  sadly  sweet, 

The  listener  thrilled  even  to  his  pausing  feet, — 

"Here,  right  before  thee,  Glaucus!"     Yet  again 

The  youth,  with  straining  eyeballs  and  hot  brain, 

Searched  the  dense  thickets, — it  was  all  in  vain. 

"Alas!  alas!"  (and  now  a  tremulous  moan 

Sobbed  through  the  voice,  like  a  faint  minor  tone 

In  mournful  human  music) — "thou  canst  see 

My  face  no  more,  for  sternly,  drearily, 

A  wildering  cloud  of  sense,  that  shall  not  rise, 

Hath  come  between  me  and  thy  darkening  eyes. 

O  shallow-hearted !  nevermore  on  thee 

Shall  visions  of  that  finer  world  above 

Dawn  from  the  chaste  auroras  of  their  love; 

But  common  things,  seen  in  a  funeral  haze 

Of  earthiness,  and  sorrow,  and  mistrust, 

Weigh  the  soul  down,  and  soil  its  hopes  with  dust ; 

A  hand  like  Fate's  with  cruel  force  shall  press 

Thy  spirit  backward  into  heaviness, 

And  the  base  realm  of  that  forlorn  abyss 

Wherein  the  serpent  Passions  writhe  and  hiss 

In  savage  desolation!     Blind,  blind,  blind 

Art  thou  henceforth  in  heart,  and  hope,  and  mind ! 

For  he  to  whom  my  messenger  of  joy 

And  soothing  promise  only  brought  annoy 

And  sharp  disquiet  in  his  low-born  lust, — 

What,  what  to  him  Ideal  Beauty 's  kiss, 


STORY  OF  GLAUCUS   THE    THESSALIAN. 


ng 


The  charm  of  lofty  converse  in  the  dells, 

Of  divine  meetings,  musical  farewells, 

And  glimpses  through  the  flickering  leaves  at  night 

Of  such  fair  mysteries  in  awe-hushing  light 

That  even  I}  who  in  these  forests  dwell 

Purely  with  innocent  creatures,  unto  whom 

All  Nature  opes  her  innermost  heart  of  bloom 

And  blessedn'ess,  by  some  majestic  spell 

Uplifted  unto  realms  ineffable, 

Faint  almost  in  the  splendor  large  and  clear? 

The  winds  have  ceased  their  murmurings, — on  my  ear 

The  rill-songs  melt  to  threads  of  delicate  tune, 

And  every  small  mote  dancing  in  the  moon 

Expands,  and  brightens  to  a  spiritual  eye, 

Luring  me  up  to  Immortality. 

O !  then  my  earthly  nature,  loosening,  slips 

Down  like  a  garment,  and  invisible  lips 

Whisper  the  secrets  of  their  happier  sphere ! 

This  bliss,  O  youth !  my  soul  had  shared  with  one 

Worthy  the  gift !     Alas !  thou  art  not  he ! " 

The  voice  died  off  toward  the  waning  sun ! 
Glaucus  looked  up, — the  gaunt,  gray  forest  trees 
Seemed  to  close  o'er  him  like  a  vault  of  stone. 
11  Just  Gods  t"  he  sighed,  "fam  indeed  alone  /" 


I2o  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


SONNET. 

HAST  thou  beheld  a  landscape  dull  and  bare, 
On  which,  at  times,  a  flying  gleam  was  shed 
From  some  shy  sunbeam  shifting  overhead, 

That  made  the  scene  for  one  brief  moment  fair? 

Such  is  the  light,  so  transient,  flickering,  rare, 

Which,  from  Fate's  sullen  heavens  above  me  spread, 
Hath  flushed  the  path  my  weary  footsteps  tread, 

And  lent  to  Darkness  glimpses  of  sweet  cheer. 

Alas !  alas !  that  I,  whose  soul  doth  burn 
With  such  deep  passion  for  a  steadfast  bliss, 

Must  bend  forever  o'er  Hope's  burial  urn, 

And  greet  even  Love  with  a  half-mournful  kiss ! 
In  sooth,  what  stern,  malignant  doom  is  this? 

Joy !  delicate  Ariel !  ah !   return  !   return ! 


MARGUERITE. 

SHE  was  a  child  of  gentlest  air, 
Of  deep-dark  eyes,  but  golden  hair, 
And,  ah !  I  loved  her  unaware, 

Marguerite ! 

She  spelled  me  with  those  midnight  eyes, 
The  sweetness  of  her  na'ive  replies, 
And  all  her  innocent  sorceries, 
Marguerite ! 


MAR  G  UERITE.  121 

The  fever  of  my  soul  grew  calm 
Beneath  her  smile  that  healed  like  balm, 
Her  words  were  holier  than  a  psalm, 
Marguerite ! 

But  'twixt  us  yawned  a  gulf  of  fate, 
Whose  blackness  I  beheld, — too  late. 
O  Christ!  that  LOVE  should  smite  like  HATE, 
Marguerite ! 

She  did  not  wither  to  the  tomb, 
But  round  her  crept  a  tender  gloom 
More  touching  than  her  earliest  bloom, 
Marguerite ! 

The  sun  of  one  fair  hope  had  set, 
A  hope  she  dared  not  all  forget, 
Its  twilight  glory  kissed  her  yet, — 
Marguerite ! 

And  ever  in  that  twilight  fair 
Moves  with  deep  eyes  and  golden  hair 
The  child  who  loved  ME  unaware ! 
Marguerite ! 


ii 


122  LEGENDS  AND  LYXICS. 


NOT   DEAD. 

TO  J.  A.  D. 

HERE,  at  the  sweetest  hour  of  this  sweet  day, — 
Here,  in  the  calmest  woodland  haunt  I  know, — 

Benignant  thoughts  around  thy  memory  play, 
And  in  my  heart  do  pleasant  fancies  blow, 
Like  flowers  turned  to  thee,  radiant  and  aglow, 

Flushed  by  the  light  of  times  forever  fled, 

Whose  tender  glory  pales,  but  is  not  dead. 

The  warm  South-wind  is  like  thy  generous  breath, 
Laden  with  kindly  words  of  gentle  cheer, 

And  every  whispering  leaf  above  me  saith, 

She  whom  thou  dream'st  so  distant  hovers  near; 
Her  love  it  is  that  thrills  the  sunset  air 

With  mystic  motions  from  a  time  that's  fled, — 

Long  past  and  gone,  in  sooth, — but,  oh !  not  dead ! 

The  drowsy  murmur  of  cool  brooks  below; 

The  soft,  slow  clouds  that  seem  to  muse  on  high; 
Love-nojtes  of  hidden  birds,  that  come  and  go, 

Making  a  sentient  Rapture  of  the  sky; 

All  the  rare  season's  peaceful  sorcery, 
These  hint  of  cordial  joys,  forever  fled, — 
Joys  past,  indeed,  and  yet  they  are  not  dead : 

Far  from  the  motley  throng  of  sordid  men, 

From  fashion  far,  mean  strife,  and  frenzied  gain, 


NOT  DEAD. 


123 


In  those  dear  days  through  many  a  mountain  glen, 
By  mountain  streams,  and  fields  of  rippling  grain, 
We  roamed,  untouched  by  Passion's  feverish  pain, 
But  quaffing  Friendship's  tranquil  draughts  instead, — 
Its  waters  clear  whose  sweetness  is  not  dead ! 

Above  that  nook  of  fair  remembrance  stands 
A  dove-eyed  Faith,  that  falters  not,  nor  sleeps ; 

No  flowers  of  Lethe  droop  in  her  white  hands, 
And  if  the  watch  that  steadfast  angel  keeps 
Be  pensive,  and  some  transient  tears  she  weeps, 

They  are  but  tears  a  fond  regret  may  shed 

O'er  twilight  joys  which  fade,  but  are  not  dead  ! 

Not  dead  !  not  dead  !  but  glorified  and  fair, 
Like  yonder  marvelous  cloudland  floating  far 

Between  the  mellowing  sunset's  amber  air 
And  the  mild  lustre  of  eve's  earliest  star, — 
Oh,  such,  so  pure,  so  bright,  these  memories  are ! 

Earth's   warmth   and    Heaven's   serene   around    them 
spread, — 

They  pass,  they  wane,  but,  Sweet !  they  are  not  dead ! 


124  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


APART. 

COME  not  with  empty  words  that  say, 
"Your  strength  of  manhood  wastes  away 
In  long,  ignoble,  fruitless  years!" 
I  live  apart  from  pain  and  tears, 
Wherewith  the  ways  of  men  are  sown, — 
Nor  dwell  I  loveless,  and  alone; 
One  tender  spirit  shares  my  days, 
One  voice  is  swift  to  yield  me  praise, 
One  true  heart  beats  against  my  own ! 
What  more,  what  more  could  man  desire 
Than  love  that  burns  a  steadfast  fire, 
And  faith  that  ever  leads  him  higher 
Along  the  paths  which  point  to  peace? 

Oh,  far  and  faint  I  hear  the  din 
Of  battle-blows,  and  mortal  sin 
From  out  the  stir  and  press  of  life; 
Those  hollow,  mufHed  sounds  of  strife 
Seem  rolled  from  thunder-clouds  upcurled 
About  a  dim  and  distant  world, 
Below  me,  in  the  sunless  gloom ; 
But  round  my  brow  the  amaranths  bloom 
Of  sober  joy  with  heart's-ease  furled; 
For  more,  what  more  can  man  desire 
Than  love  that  burns  a  steadfast  fire, 
And  faith  that  ever  leads  him  higher, 
Where  all  the  jars  of  earth  shall  cease? 


«/AT  UTROQUE  FIDELIS."  125 

A  present  glory  haunts  my  way, 

A  promise  of  diviner  day 

Illumes  the  flushed  horizon's  verge; 

And  fainter,  farther  still,  the  surge 

Of  buffeting  waves  that  beat  and  roar 

Up  the  dim  world's  tempestuous  shore 

Beneath  me  in  the  moonless  airs; 

Alas,  its  passions,  sorrows,  cares ! 

Alas,  its  fathomless  despairs ! 

Yet  dreams,  vague  dreams,  they  seem  to  me, 

On  these  clear  heights  of  liberty, 

These  summits  of  serene  desire, — 

Whence  love  ascends,  a  quenchless  fire, 

And  sweet  faith  ever  leads  me  higher 

To  pearly  paths  of  perfect  peace ! 


"IN   UTROQUE   FIDELIS." 

ALONG  the  woods  the  whispering  night-airs  swoon, 
A  single  bird-note  dies  adown  the  trees, 

Clear,  pallid,  mournful,  droops  the  summer  moon, 
Dipped  in  the  foam  of  cloudland's  phantom  seas; — 
Soundless  they  heave  above 

The  dim,  ancestral  home  that  holds  my  love. 

How  breathless-still !     A  mystic  glamour  keeps 

Calm  watch  and  ward  o'er  this  weird,  drowsy  hour: 

Yon  heaven's  at  peace,  the  earth  benignly  sleeps; 
And  thou,  thou  slumberest  too,  my  woodland  flower, — 
Fair  lily  steeped  in  light 

And  happy  visions  of  the  marvelous  night ! 


126  LEGENDS  AND   CYRICS. 

I  waft  a  sigh  from  this  fond  soul  to  thine, — 

A  little  sigh,  yet  honey-laden,  dear, 
With  fairy  freightage  of  such  hopes  divine 

As  fain  would  flutter  gently  at  thine  ear, 

And,  entering,  find  their  way 
Down  to  the  heart  so  veiled  from  me  by  day. 

In  dreams,  in  dreams,  perchance,  thou  art  not  coy; 

And  one  keen  hope  more  bold  than  all  the  rest 
May  touch  thy  spirit  with  a  tremulous  joy, 

And  stir  an  answering  softness  in  thy  breast : 

O  sleep !  O  blest  eclipse ! 
What  murmured  word  is  faltering  at  her  lips? 

Awake  for  one  brief  moment,  genial  South: 

Breathe  o'er  her  slumbers, — waft  that  word  to  me, 

Warm  with  the  fragrance  of  her  rosebud  mouth, 
Enwreathed  in  smiles  of  dreamful  fantasy: 
Come,  whisper,  low  and  light, 

The  name  which  haunts  her  maiden  trance  to-night. 

Still,  breathless-still !     No  voice  in  earth  or  air: 

I  only  know  my  delicate  darling  lies, 
A  twilight  lustre  glimmering  in  her  hair, 

And  dews  of  peace  within  her  languid  eyes: 

Yea,  only  know  that  I 
Am  called  from  love  and  dreams,  perhaps  to  die, — 

Die  when  the  heavens  are  thick  with  scarlet  rain, 
And  every  time-throb's  fated:   even  there 

Her  face  would  shine  through  mists  of  mortal  pain, 
And  sweeten  death,  like  some  incarnate  prayer: 
Hark !  'tis  the  trumpet's  swell ! 

O  love !   O  dreams !   farewell,  farewell,  farewell ! 


THE   LOTOS  AND    THE  LILY.  127 


THE   LOTOS   AND   THE   LILY. 

The  little  poems  which  follow  were  suggested  by  an  Oriental  idea 
developed  in  Alger's  "Specimens  of  Eastern  Poetry."  The  MOON  is 
strangely  spoken  of  as  masculine. 

THE  LOTOS. 

DROOPING  in  the  sunlit  streams, 
We  are  wrapped  all  day  in  dreams; 

Morn  and  noon  and  evening  light 
Robed  for  us  in  garbs  of  night. 

Only  when  the  moon  appears 
Through  a  silvery  mist  of  tears, 

From  the  waters  dark  and  still, 
We  arise  to  drink  our  fill 

Of  the  tender  love  he  sheds 
On  our  fair  enamored  heads. 

Ah !  no  longer  wrapped  in  dreams, 
How  we  pant  beneath  his  beams ! 

How,  with  breath  of  softest  sighs, 
We  unclose  our  yearning  eyes, 

And  our  snowy  necks  in  pride 
Curve  about  the  glittering  tide ! 


128  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Warmth  for  warmth  and  kiss  for  kiss, 
All  our  pulses  burn  with  bliss, 

Till  revealed  our  inmost  charms 
Glowing  in  the  Night-God's  arms. 


THE  LILY. 

View  us,  white-robed  Lilies, 
We  whose  beauty's  rareness 

Sleeps  until  the  Bridegroom  Sun 
Woos  our  virgin  fairness. 

Then,  our  bosoms  baring, 
'Neath  his  ardent  kisses, 

Stem,  and  leaf,  and  delicate  heart 
Trembling  into  blisses, 

The  full,  fervid  Godhead 
Thrills  our  being  tender, 

And  our  happy  souls  expand 
In  ecstatic  splendor. 

Thus  all,  all  we  yield  him 
Of  our  shrined  sweetness, — 

All  that  maiden  warmth  may  grant 
To  true  love's  completeness. 


WINDLESS  RAIN. 


WINDLESS    RAIN. 

THE  rain,  the  desolate  rain  ! 

Ceaseless,  and  solemn,  and  chill ! 
How  it  drips  on  the  misty  pane, 

How  it  drenches  the  darkened  sill ! 
O  scene  of  sorrow  and  dearth ! 

I  would  that  the  wind  awaking 
To  a  fierce  and  gusty  birth 

Might  vary  this  dull  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  desolate  rain: 

For  the  heart  of  heaven  seems  breaking 
In  tears  o'er  the  fallen  earth, 

And  again,  again,  again 

We  list  to  the  sombre  strain, 
The  faint,  cold,  monotone — 
Whose  soul  is  a  mystic  moan — 
Of  the  rain,  the  mournful  rain, 
The  soft,  despairing  rain  ! 

The  rain,  the  murmurous  rain  ! 

Weary,  passionless,  slow, 
'Tis  the  rhythm  of  settled  sorrow, 

'Tis  the  sobbing  of  cureless  woe ! 
And  all  the  tragic  of  life, 

The  pathos  of  Long- Ago, 

Comes  back  on  the  sad  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  dreary  rain, 
Till  the  graves  in  my  heart  unclose, 

And  the  dead  who  are  buried  there 


130  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

From  a  solemn  and  weird  repose 

Awake, — but  with  eyeballs  drear, 
And  voices  that  melt  in  pain 
On  the  tide  of  the  plaintive  rain, 
The  yearning,  hopeless  rain, 
The  long,  low,  whispering  rain ! 


CHLORIS. 

WHAT  time  the  rosy-flushing  West 
Sleeps  soft  on  copse  and  dingle, 

Wherein  the  sunset  shadows  rest, 
Or  richly  float  and  mingle; 

When  down  the  vale  the  wood-dove's  note 

Thrills  in  a  cadence  tender, 
And  every  rare,  ethereal  mote 

Turns  to  a  winged  splendor ; 

Just  as  the  mystic  cloudlands  ope, 

Far  up  their  sapphire  portal, 
Fair  as  the  fairest  dream  of  Hope, 

Half  goddess  and  half  mortal,- 

I  see  that  lovely  Genius  rise, 

That  child  of  Orient  trances, 
On  whose  sweet  face  the  glory  lies 

Of  weird  Hellenic  fancies,— 


NATURE,  BETROTHED   AND    WEDDED. 

CHLORIS  !  beneath  whose  procreant  tread 
All  earth  yields  up  her  sweetness, — 

The  violet's  scent,  the  rose's  red, 
The  dahlia's  orbed  completeness, — 

And  verdures  on  the  myriad  hills, 

The  breath  of  her  pure  duty 
Hath  nursed  to  life  by  sparkling  riils 

And  foliaged  nooks  of  beauty ; 

Till  bloom  and  odor,  blush  and  song, 
So  fill  earth's  radiant  spaces, — 

The  fading  touch  of  sin,  or  wrong, 
Leaves  glad  the  we^kst  faces  ; 

And  so,  through  happy  spring-tide  dells, 
O'er  mount,  and  field,  and  river, 

Her  Zephyr's  fairy  clarion  swells, 
Her  footsteps  glance  forever ! 


NATURE,  BETROTHED  AND  WEDDED, 

HAVE  you  not  noted  how  in  early  Spring, 

From  out  the  forests,  past  the  murmuring  brooks, 

O'er  the  hillsides,  Nature,  with  airy  grace, 

Like  some  fair  virgin,  touched  by  lights  and  shades. 

Glides  timidly,  a  veil  of  golden  mist 

About  her  brows,  and  budding  bosom  draped 

In  maiden  coyness?     She's  a  Bride  betrothed 


I32 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Unto  that  mystic  god,  who  comes  from  far, 
Rich  Orient  lands  upon  the  winds  of  June, 
That  bear  him  like  swift  Ardours,  winged  with  fire ; 
And  when,  on  some  calm,  lustrous  morn,  her  Lord 
Uplifts  the  golden  veil,  and  weds  to  hers 
The  quickening  warmth  of  ripe,  immortal  lips, 
How  the  broad  Earth  leaps  into  raptured  life, 
And  thrills  with  music ! 

Then,  a  queenly  spouse, 

Raised  unto  fruitful  empire,  through  all  hours 
Of  bounteous  Summer,  she  walks  proudly  on, 
Shining  with  blissful  eyes  of  matronhood, 
Till,  at  the  last,  Aut«wn,  with  reverent  hand, 
Doth  crown  her  with  such  full,  completed  joy, 
Such  wealth  of  sovereign  beauty,  she  once  more 
About  her  brows  and  sumptuous  bosom  folds 
That  golden  veil, — not  in  the  tremulous  fear 
Of  maiden  coyness  now,  but  lest  rash  men, 
Drawn  by  her  awful  loveliness,  should  dare 
To  gaze  too  closely  on  it,  and  thus  fall, 
Smitten  and  blind,  at  her  imperial  feet ! 


FORTUNIO.  133 


FORTUNIO. 

A    PARABLE    FOR   THE    TIMES. 

WHO  at  the  court  of  Astolf,  the  great  King, 
King  of  a  realm  of  firs,  and  icy  floes, 
Cold  bright  fiords,  and  mountains  capped  with  clouds, - 
Who  there  so  loved  and  honored  as  the  knight, 
The  youthful  knight,  Fortunio?     Whence  he  came, 
None  knew,  nor  whom  his  kindred :   at  a  bound 
He  passed  all  rivals  moving  towards  the  throne, 
And  stood  firm-poised  above  them ;  yet  with  mien 
So  sweet,  it  honeyed  envy,  and  surprised 
The  bitterest  railers  into  complaisance ! 
Low-voiced  and  delicate-featured,  with  a  cheek 
As  soft  as  peach  down,  or  the  golden  dust 
Shrined  in  a  maiden  lily's  heart  of  hearts, — 
Yet  a  stern  will  bent  bowlike,  with  the  shaft 
Of  some  keen  purpose  swiftly  drawn  to  head, 
Or  launched  unerring  at  its  lofty  mark, — 
Rose  thrilled  with  action,  or  high-strung  at  aim, 
Beneath  his  jeweled  doublet !     While  the  hand 
So  warm,  so  white,  and  wont  to  press  the  palm 
In  palpitating  clasp  of  fair  sixteen, 
Could  wield  the  ponderous  battle-axe,  or  flash 
The  lightning  rapier  in  a  foeman's  eyes. 
Prince  of  the  tourney  and  the  dance  alike, 
War's  fiercer  lists  had  seen  his  furrowless  brow 
Flushed  red  with  heat  of  battle,  heard  his  voice 
Shrilled  clear  beyond  the  clarions,  mount  and  break 

12 


1 34  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

In  larklike  song  far  o'er  the  mists  of  blood, 

Through  Victory's  calmer  heaven.   Mixed  love  and  fear, 

With  love  ofttimes  preponderant,  girded  him 

Closely,  as  with  an  atmosphere  disturbed 

Only  by  hints  of  thunder,  ghosts  of  cloud. 

But  love,  all  love,  love  in  her  passionate  eyes, 

Love  'twixt  the  pure  twin  rosebuds  of  her  mouth, 

Love  in  the  arch  of  brooding,  beauteous  brows, 

And  every  wavering  dimple  wherein  smiles 

At  hide-and-seek  with  sly,  mock  frownings  played, — 

All  love  was  Freyla,  though  a  princess  she, 

For  this  unknown  Fortunio !     Wildly  beat 

And  burned  her  heart  at  each  soft  glance  he  gave, 

Or  softer  word,  albeit  as  yet  unthrilled 

By  answering  passion  !     Swiftly  flew  her  dreams 

Birdlike  on  balmy  winds  of  fancy  borne, 

To  bridal  realms  empurpled  and  divine, — 

Alas !  but  Scorn,  that  long  had  lurked  and  spied 

In  ambush,  shot  its  sudden  bolts,  and  brought 

Those  winged  Dreams  transfixed  to  earth  and  dead ! 

While  Rage,  Scorn's  ally,  in  her  father's  breast, 

Clutched  the  sweet  dreamer  rudely,  dragged  her  soul 

Into  the  garish  glare  of  Commonplace 

(Soon  to  be  lit  by  Horror's  lurid  star!) 

And  so  convulsed  her  tenderness  with  threats, 

That  all  her  being  seemed  collapsed  to  fall 

Crushed,  as  in  moral  earthquake:    ''Doting  fool," 

Outshrieked  the  King,  "dost  dream  great  Odin's  blood 

Could  mix  with  veins  plebeian  ?     Purge  thy  thoughts, 

Unvirgined,  vile,  of  sacrilegious  sin! 

But  for  this  boy,  our  twelvemonth's  grace  hath  raised 

So  high,  a  moment's  justice  shall  cast  down 

To  fathomless  depths  of  ruin!" 


FOKTUNIO.  ; 

Wherewithal 

(Harping  on  justice  still,  though  justice  slept) 
The  King  decreed,  "This  youth  Fortunio  dies!" 
So,  on  a  bright  spring  morn,  the  knight  stood  up, 
Fronting  the  royal  doomsmen,.  with  a  face 
Sublimely  calm ;  they  tore  his  bravery  off, 
His  jeweled  vest  and  knighthood's  golden  spurs, 
And  bared  his  heart  to  catch  the  arrowy  hail, — 
When  lo !  beneath  those  rough,  disrobing  hands, 
The  dangerous,  lewd  seducer,  coyly  boived, 
Outbeamed  a  virgin  beauty  chaste  and  fair  ! 

The  King,  beholding,  started,  and  then  smiled : 
"Thou  wanton  madcap,"  said  he,  "go  in  peace!" 

O  cordial  eyes,  the  brown  eyes  and  the  blue, 

Or  ye  dark  eyes,  with  deeps  like  midnight  heavens, 

Where  unimagined  worlds  of  thought  and  love 

Shine  starlike,  would  ye  quench  your  glorious  rays 

In  the  low  levels  of  the  lives  of  men? 

O  gracious  souls  of  women  tender-sweet, 

And  luminous  with  goodness,  would  ye  soil 

Your  nascent  angel-plumage  in  the  sty 

Of  sordid  worldliness?     Be  warned,  be  warned! 

Set  not  the  frail  spears  of  your  rash  caprice 

In  rest  against  great  Nature's  pierceless  shield; 

Strive  not  to  grasp  monopolies  impure, 

Man's  fated  heritage.     Be  warned,  be  warned ! 

For  surely  as  yon  bright  sun  dawns  and  dies, 

And  sure  as  Nature,  all  immutable, 

Year  after  year  completes  her  mystic  round 

Through  law's  vast  orbit, — so  ye  desperate  Fair, 

Arrayed  against  the  eternal  force  of  God, 


i36 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Must  fall  discomfited,  and  like  that  knight, 
The  false  Fortunio,  rest  your  claims  at  last, 
Not  on  deft  spells  of  simulated  power, 
But  on  the  soft  white  bosom  which  enspheres 
The  sacred  charms  of  perfect  womanhood  ! 


STONEWALL  JACKSON. 


THE  fashions  and  the  forms  of  men  decay, 

The  seasons  perish,  the  calm  sunsets  die, 

Ne'er  with  the  same  bright  pomp  of  cloud  or  ray 

To  flush  the  golden  pathways  of  the  Sky ; 

All  things  are  lost  in  dread  Eternity, — 

States,  Empires,  Creeds,  the  Lay 

Of  master  Poets,  even  the  shapes  of  Love, 

Bear  ever  with  them  an  invisible  Shade, 

Whose  name  is  death;  we  cannot  breathe  nor  move, 

But  that  we  touch  the  Darkness,  till  dismayed, 

We  feel  the  imperious  Shadow  freeze  our  hearts, 

And  mortal  Hope  grows  pale  and  fluttering  Life  departs. 

n. 

All  things  are  lost  in  dread  Eternity, 

Save  that  majestic  VIRTUE  which  is  given 

Once,  twice,  perchance  beneath  our  earthly  Heaven, 

To  some  great  Soul  in  ages :   O !  the  Lie, 

The  base,  incarnate  Lie  we  call  the  World, 

Shakes  at  his  coming,  as  the  forest  shakes, 

When  mountain  storms  with  bannered  clouds  unfurled, 


STONEWALL    JACKSON.  137 

Rush  down  and  rend  it;  sleek  Convention  drops 
Its  glittering  mass,  and  hoary,  cobwebbed  rules 
Of  petty  Charlatans  or  insolent  fools 
Shrink  to  annihilation, — Truth  awakes, 
A  morning  splendor  in  her  fearless  eyes 

Touching  the  delicate  stops 
Of  some  rare  Lute  which  breathes  of  promise  fair, 

Or  pouring  on  the  covenanted  air 
A  trumpet  blast  which  startles,  but  makes  strong, 

While  ancient  Wrong, 
Driven  like  a  beast  from  his  deep-caverned  lair, 

Grows  gaunt,  and  inly  quakes, 
Knowing  that  Retribution  draws  so  near ! 


in. 


Whether  with  Blade,  or  Pen, 

Toil  these  immortal  men, 
Theirs  is  the  Light  supreme,  which  Genius  wed 

To  a  clear  spiritual  Dower, 
Hath  ever  o'er  the  aroused  Nations  shed 

Joy,  faith,  and  power; 

Whether  from  wrestling  with  the  Godlike  Thought, 
They  launch  a  noiseless  blessing  on  mankind, 
Or  through  wild  streams  of  terrible  carnage  brought, 

No  longer  crushed  and  blind, 

Trampled,  disheveled,  gored, 
They  proudly  lift,  where  kindling  soul  and  eye 
May  feast  upon  her  beauty  as  She  stands 
(Girt  by  the  strength  of  her  invincible  Bands), 
And  freed  through  keen  redemption  of  the  sword, — 
Thy  worn,  but  radiant  form,  victorious  Liberty! 
12* 


138 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


We  bow  before  this  grandeur  of  the  spirit; 

We  worship,  and  adore 
God's  image  burning  through  it  evermore; 
And  thus,  in  awed  humility  to-night,* 
As  those  who  at  some  vast  Cathedral  door 
Pause  with  hushed  faces,  purified  desires, 

We  contemplate  His  merit, 
Who  lifted  Failure  to  the  heights  of  Fame, 
And  by  the  side  of  fainting,  dying  Right, 
Stood,  as  Sir  Galahad  pure,  Sir  Launcelot  brave, 

The  quick,  indignant  fires 

Flushing  his  pale  brow  from  the  passionate  mind 
No  strength  could  quell,  no  sophistry  could  bind, 
Until  that  moment,  big  with  mystic  doom 

(Whose  issue  sent 

O'er  the  long  wastes  of  half  a  continent 
Electric  shudders  through  the  deepening  gloom), 
When  in  his  knightly  glory  "Stonewall"  fell, 
And  all  our  hearts  sank  with  him;  for  we  knew 
Our  staff,  our  bulwark  broken,  the  fine  clew 
To  Freedom  snapped,  his  hands  had  held  alone, 
Through  all  the  storms  of  battle  overblown,— 
Lost,  buried,  mouldering  in  our  Hero's  grave. 

v. 

O  Soul !  so  simple,  yet  sublime ! 

With  faith  as  large,  and  mild 
As  that  of  some  benignant,  trustful  child, 
Who  mounts  to  Heaven  on  bright,  ethereal  stairs 

Of  tender-worded  prayers, — 

*  This  Ode  was  originally  written  to  be  delivered  before  a  Southern 
patriotic  association. 


STONEWALL    JACKSON,  139 

Yet  strong  as  if  a  Titan's  force  were  there 
To  rise,  to  act,  to  suffer,  and  to  dare, — 

O  Soul !  that  on  our  Time 
Wrought,  in  the  calm  magnificence  of  power 
To  ends  so  noble,  that  an  antique  light 
Of  grace  and  virtue  streamed  along  thy  way, 

Until  the  direst  hour 
Of  carnage  caught  from  that  immaculate  ray 

A  Consecration,  and  a  Sanctity ! 
Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  nevermore  canst  die, 

But  wide  and  far, 

Where'er  on  Christian  realms  the  Morning  Star 
Flames  round  the  spires  that  tower  towards  the  sky, — 

Thy  name,  a  household  word, 
In  cottage  homes,  by  palace  walls,  is  heard, 
Breathed  with  low  murmurs,  reverentially ! 


VI. 

Even  as  I  raise  this  faltering  song  to  One, 
Who  now  beyond  the  empires  of  the  Sun, 
Looks  down  perchance  upon  our  mournful  sphere, 
With  the  deep  pity  of  seraphic  eyes, 
Fancy  unveils  the  Future,  and  I  see 
Millions  on  millions,  as  year  follows  year 
Gather  around  our  warrior's  place  of  rest 
In  the  green  shadows  of  Virginian  hills; 
Not  with  the  glow  of  martial  blazonry, 
With  trump  and  muffled  drum, 
Those  pilgrim  millions  come, 

But  with  bowed  heads,  and  measured  footsteps  slow, 
As  those  who  near  the  presence  of  a  shrine, 
And  feel  an  air  divine, 


140 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


All  round  about  them  blandly,  sweetly  blow, 
While  like  dream-music  the  faint  fall  of  rills, 

Lapsing  from  steep  to  steep, 
The  wood-dove  'plaining  in  her  covert  deep, 
And  the  long  whisperings  of  the  ghostly  Pine 
(Like  ocean-breathings  borne  from  tides  of  sleep), 
With  every  varied  melody  expressed 
In  Nature's  score  of  solemn  harmonies, 
Blends  with  a  feeling  in  the  reverent  breast, 
Which  cannot  find  a  voice  in  mortal  speech, 
So  deep,  so  deep  it  lies  beyond  the  reach 
Of  stammering  words, — the  Pilgrims  only  know 
That  slumbering,  O !  so  calmly  there,  below 
The  dewy  grass,  the  melancholy  trees, 

Moulders  the  dust  of  HIM, 

By  whose  crystalline  fame,  earth's  scarlet  pomps  grow 
dim, 

The  crowned  Heir 

Of  two  majestic  immortalities, 
That  which  is  earthly,  and  yet  scarce  of  earth, 

Whose  fruitful  seeds 
Were  his  own  grand,  self-sacrificing  deeds, 

And  that  whose  awful  birth 
Flowered  into  instant  perfectness  sublime, 

When  done  with  toil  and  time, 
He  shook  from  off  the  raiments  of  his  soul, 
The  weary  conflict's  desecrating  dust, 
For  stern  reveilles,  heard  the  angels  sing, 
For  battle  turmoils  found  eternal  Calm, 
Laid  down  his  sinless  sword  to  clasp  the  Palm, 
And  where  vast  heavenly  organ-notes  outroll 
Melodious  thunders,  'mid  the  rush  of  wing, 


THE   LITTLE    WHITE    GLOVE. 

And  flash  of  plume  celestial,  paused  in  peace, 

A  rapture  of  ineffable  release 

To  know  the  long  fruition  of  the  Just ! 


141 


THE   LITTLE   WHITE    GLOVE. 

(FOUNDED  ON  AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  LATE  WAR.) 


THE  early  springtime  faintly  flushed  the  earth, 
And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite  stream, 
The  fair  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 
Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them, — there,  at  eve, 
Philip  had  brought  the  woman  that  he  loved, 
And  told  his  love,  and  bared  his  burning  heart; 
She,  Constance,  the  shy  sunbeams  trembling  oft 
Through  dewy  leaves  upon  her  golden  hair, 
Made  him  no  answer, — tapped  her  pretty  foot, 
And  seemed  to  muse.      "To-morrow  I  depart," 
Said  Philip,  sadly,  "for  wild  fields  of  war, — 
Shall  I  go  girt  by  love's  invincible  mail, 
Stronger  than  mortal  armor,  or  all  stripped 
Of  love  and  hope,  march  reckless  unto  death?" 

A  soft  mist  filled  her  eyes,  and  overflowed 
In  sudden  rain  of  passion,  as  she  stretched 
Her  delicate  hand  to  his,  and  plighted  troth 
With  lips  more  rosy  than  the  sun-bathed  flowers. 
And  Philip  pressed  the  dear  hand  fervently, 
Where  from  in  happy  mood  he  quickly  drew 
A  small  white  glove,  and  ere  she  guessed  his  will, 


142 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Clipped  lightly  from  her  head  one  golden  curl, 

And  bound  the  glove,  and  placed  it  next  his  heart. 

"Now  am  I  safe,"  cried  Philip,  "this  pure  charm 

Is  proof  against  all  hazard  or  mischance. 

Here,  yea,  unto  this  self-same  spot  I  vow 

To  bring  it  stainless  back;  and  you  shall  wear 

This  little  glove  upon  our  marriage  eve." 

And  Constance  heafd  him,  smiling  through  her  tears. 


Another  springtime  faintly  flushed  the  earth, 

And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite  stream, 

The  fair  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 

Above  the  waves  that  wooed  them;  there,  at  eve, 

Came  a  pale  woman  with  wide-wandering  eyes, 

And  tangled  golden  ringlets,  and  weak  steps, 

Reeling  towards  the  streamlet's  glittering  marge, 

She  seemed  phantasmal,  shadowy,  like  the  forms 

By  moonlight  conjured  from  a  place  of  graves; 

There,  crouching  o'er  the  stream,  she  laved  and  laved 

Some  object  in  it  with  a  strained  regard, 

And  muttered  fragments  of  distempered  words, 

Whereof  were  these:    "He  vowed  to  bring  it  back, 

The  love-charm  that  I  gave  him — my  white  glove — 

Stainless  and  whole.     He  has  not  kept  his  oath ! 

O  Philip !  Philip !  have  you  cast  me  off, 

Off,  like  this  worthless  thing  you  send  me  home, 

Tattered,  and  mildewed  ?     Look  you,  what  a  rent, 

Right  through  the  palm! — it  cannot  be  my  glove, — 

And  look  again!  what  horrid  stain  is  here? 

MY  glove !     You  placed  it  next  your  heart  and  swore 

To  keep  it  safe,  and  on  this  self-same  spot 


A   FEUDAL   PICTURE.  143 

Return  it  to  me  on  our  marriage  eve; 

And  now — and  now — I  know  'tis  not  my  glove, 

Yet  Philip,  sweet,  it  was  a  cruel  jest, — 

You  surely  did  not  mean  to  fright  me  thus? 

For  hark  you,  as  I  laved  the  loathsome  thing, 

To  see  what  stain  defiled  it — (do  not  smile, 

I  feel  that  I  am  foolish,  foolish,  Philip), 

But,  God  of  heaven  !  I  dreamed  that  stain  was — blood ! ' ' 


A   FEUDAL   PICTURE. 

(SCENE  —  The  Corridor  of  a  Palace.  PERSONS — A 
young  Knight  and  his  Mentor.  TIME —  The  Fourteenth 
Century.) 

MENTOR. 

"  WITH  what  a  grace  she  passed  us  by  just  now ! 
Her  delicate  chin  half  raised,  her  cordial  brow 
A  cloudless  heaven  of  bland  benignities ! 
What  tempered  lustre  too  in  her  dove's  eyes, 
Just  touched  to  archness  by  the  eyebrow's  curve, 
And  those  quick  dimples  which  the  mouth's  reserve 
Stir  and  break  up,  as  sunlit  ripples  break 
The  cool,  clear  calmness  of  a  mountain  lake ! 
A  woman  in  whom  majesty  and  sweetness 
Blend  to  such  issues  of  serene  completeness, 
That  to  gaze  on  her  were  a  prince's  boon ! 
The  calm  of  evening,  the  large  pomp  of  noon, 
Are  hers;  soft  May  morns  melting  into  June, 
Hold  not  such  tender  languishments  as  those 


I44  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Which  steep  her  in  that  dew-light  of  repose, 

That  floats  a  dreamy  balm  around  the  full-blown  rose: — 

And  yet,  'tis  not  her  beauty  though  so  bright 

(Clear  moon-fire  mixed  with  sun-flame),  nor  the  light, 

Transparent  charm  we  feel  so  exquisite, 

Whereby  she's  compassed  as  a  wizard  star 

By  its  own  life-air!  'tis  not  one,  nor  all 

Of  these,  whereby  we're  mastered,  Sir,  and  fall 

Slavelike  before  her  :   doubtless  such  things  are 

Potent  as  spells, — still  there's  a  something  fine, 

Subtler  than  hoar-rime  in  the  faint  moonshine, 

More  potent  yet ! — an  undefined  art, 

'Twere  vain  to  question :   your  whole  being,  heart, 

Brain,  blood,  seem  lapsing  from  you,  fired  and  fused 

In  hers, — a  terrible  power,  and  if  abused 

But  by  St.  Peter!   'tis  not  safe  to  talk 
Of  yon  weird  woman !  turn  now !  watch  her  walk 
'Twixt  the  tall  tiger-lilies, — there's  a  free, 
Brave  grace  in  every  step, — but  still  to  me, 
It  hath — I  know  not  what — of  covertness, 
Cunning,  and  cruel  purpose !  can  you  guess 
The  picture  it  brings  up? — a  lonely  rock 
From  which  a  young  Bedouin  guards  his  flock, 
In  the  swart  desert: — there's  a  tawny  band, 
A  curved  and  tangled  pathway  of  loose  sand, 
Winding  above  him; — the  tranced  airs  make  dim 
His  slumberous  senses! — his  great  brown  eyes  swim 
In  th'  mist  of  dreams,  when  gliding  with  mute  tread 
Forth  from  the  thorn-trees,  o'er  his  nodding  head, 
Moves  a  lithe-bodied  panther; — (S0d-!  how  fair 
The  beast  is,  with  her  moony-spotted  hair, 
And  her  deft  desert  paces!) — one  breath  more! 
And  you'll  behold  the  spouting  of  fresh  gore, 


A   FEUDAL   PICTURE. 


145 


Heart-blood  that's  human  ! — can  aught  save  him  now? — 

Hist !  the  sharp  crackle  of  a  blasted  bough, 

Whence  flies  a  huge  hill-eagle,  rustling 

O'er  the  boy's  forehead  his  vast  breadths  of  wing, 

And  sweeping  as  a  half-seen  shade,  'twould  seem, 

Betwixt  his  startled  spirit,  and  its  dream; 

He's  roused !  espies  his  danger!  at  a  bound 

Leaps  into  safety  where  the  low-set  ground 

Is  buttressed  'neath  two  giant  crags  thereby:  — 

(Now  hark  ye!   'tis  no  pictured  phantasy, 

This  scene,  my  Anslem!  but  all's  true  and  clear 

Before  me,  though  full  many  a  weary  year 

Has  waxed  and  waned  since  then: — 

My  meaning  prithee?  foolish  youth,  beware! 

There's  treachery  lurking  in  the  gay  parterre, 

As  in  the  hoary  desert's  silentness, — 

And  dreams  with  danger,  death  perchance  behind, 

May  lull  young  sleepers  in  the  perfumed  wind, 

Which  hardly  lifts  the  tiniest  truant  tress 

It  toys  with  coyly,  of  a  woman's  hair: — 

Our  sternest  fates  have  risen  in  forms  as  fair, 

As, — let  us  say  for  lack  of  similes, 

As, — hers,  who  bends  now  with  such  gracious  ease, 

O'er  her  rich  tulip-beds! — 

Were  I  the  bird, 

Wert  THOU  the  shepherd  ANSLEM,  of  my  tale, 
(And  that  thou  hast  not  hearkened,  boy,  unstirred 
Is  clear,  albeit  thou  need'st  not  wax  so  pale),— 
What  would  true  wisdom  whisper,— now  'tis  done, 
My  warning,  and  thy  day-dream  in  the  sun?— 
What!  why,  her  mandate's  plain:— I  hear  her  say, 
'Young  Knight!    to  horse!    leave  the  Queen's  Court 
to-day!'  ' 

13 


I46  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


THE   WARNING. 

PATIENCE  !  I  yet  may  pierce  the  rind 
Wherewith  are  shrewdly  girded  round 
The  subtle  secrets  of  his  mind ; 
A  dark,  unwholesome  core  is  bound 
Perchance  within  it !  Sir,  you  see, 
Men  are  not  what  they  seem  to  be ! 

A  candid  mien,  and  plausible  tongue ! 
A  bearing  calmly  frank  and  fair, — 
The  tear  ('twould  seem)  by  pity  wrung, 
All  these  are  his,  but  still,  beware! — 
A  something  strange,  false,  unbegot 
Of  virtue,  whispers,  trust  him  not: — 

But  yesterday,  his  mask  (I  know 
He  wears  one),  for  a  moment's  space, 
By  chance  dropped  off,  and  swift  below 
The  smile  just  waning  on  his  face, 
I  caught  a  look,  flashed  sudden,  keen 
As  lightning,  which  he  deemed  unseen : 

I  will  not  pause  to  tell  thee  what 
That  look  betrayed !  enough  I  think, 
To  smite  the  spirit  cold  and  hot, 
By  turns, — and  make  one  inly  shrink 
From  contact  with  a  soul  that  keeps 
Such  wild-fire  smouldering  in  its  deeps: 


DRIFTING.  147 

So  friend,  be  warned !  he  is  not  one 
Thy  youth  should  trust,  for  all  his  smiles, 
Frank  foreheads,  genial  as  the  Sun, 
May  hide  a  thousand  treacherous  wiles, 
And  tones,  like  music's  honeyed  flow, 
May  work  (God  knows!)  the  bitterest  woe! 


DRIFTING. 

I  HAVE  settled  at  last  in  a  sombre  nook, 
In  the  far-off  heart  of  the  Norland  hills, 
There's  a  dark  pine  forest  before  my  gates, 
And  behind  is  the  voice  of  rills 
That  murmur  all  day,  and  murmur  all  night, 
Through  the  tangled  copses  green  and  lone, 
Where,  couched  in  the  depths  of  the  shadowy  leaves, 
The  wood-dove  makes  her  moan. 

My  home  is  a  castle  ancient  and  worn, 
With  hoary  walls,  and  with  crumbling  floors, 
And  the  Burglar-Winds  their  entrance  force 
Through  the  cobwebbed  panes  and  doors. 
I  can  hardly  say  that  a  roof  is  mine, 
For  whene'er  the  mountain  tempests  rise, 
A  deluge  is  poured  through  its  countless  rents, 
Wide  open  to  air  and  skies ! 

Ah  !  Nature  alone  keeps  a  wholesome  mien, 
In  the  midst  of  a  squalor  wildly  bare, 


148  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

And  I  draw  sometimes  from  her  bounteous  breast 

Brief  balms  for  the  heart's  despair ; 

All  human  friends  that  were  loyal  have  died, 

And  the  false  and  treacherous  only  stay, 

To  poison  the  soul  with  their  serpent  tongues 

In  my  fortune's  dull  decay  ! 

Distant  and  dim  in  the  perishing  past 
Grow  the  joys  that  made  its  springtime  sweet, 
And  the  last  of  the  saving  angels — Hope — 
Hath  spurned  my  lot  with  her  shining  feet ; 
Ambition  is  dead,  and  if  Love  survives, 
Her  lip,  it  is  pale,  and  her  eyes  forlorn 
As  beams  of  the  waning  stars  that  melt 
In  a  clouded  winter's  morn. 

I  have  met  my  fate  as  a  man  should  meet 
What  cannot  be  vanquished,  nor  put  aside, 
I  have  striven  with  spirit  and  force  to  stem 
Its  rushing  and  mighty  tide  ; 
But  the  Godlike  nerve,  and  the  iron  will, 
They  were  not  granted  to  me,  I  say, 
And  therefore  a  waif  on  an  angry  sea, 
I  am  drifting,  drifting  away  ! 

Ay!  drifting,  and  drifting,  and  drifting  away, 

Not  a  hand  upraised,  nor  a  cry  for  aid ; 

And  hoarser  the  voice  of  the  storm- wind  swells, 

And  darker  the  wild  night-shade ; 

There  are  breakers  ahead  that  will  crush  me  soon, 

How  much,  O  God  !   do  thy  creatures  bear  ! 

I  marvel  if  somewhere,  in  Heaven  or  Hell, 

This  riddle  of  life  grows  clear ! 


SONNET— CAROLINA.  149 


SONNET. 

CAROLINA. 

THAT  fair  young  land  which  gave  me  birth  is  dead  ! 
Lost  as  a  fallen  star  that  quivering  dies 
Down  the  pale  pathway  of  Autumnal  skies, 
A  vague  faint  radiance  flickering  where  it  fled ; 
All  she  hath  wrought,  all  she  hath  planned  or  said, 
Her  golden  eloquence,  her  high  emprise, 
Wrecked,  on  the  languid  shore  of  Lethe  lies, 
While  cold  Oblivion  veils  her  piteous  head:* 
O  mother !  loved  and  loveliest !  debonair 
As  some  brave  Queen  of  antique  chivalries, — 

*  This  may  be  esteemed  an  exaggeration ;  but  really  it  is  the  sober 
and  melancholy  truth.  The  fame  of  the  great  Statesmen  and  Orators, 
for  example,  who  once  flourished  in  South  Carolina,  and  made  her 
name  illustrious  from  one  end  of  the  Union  to  the  other,  is  fast  becom 
ing  a  mere  shadowy  tradition.  With  a  single  exception,  their  works 
have  never  been  collected  for  publication,  nor  have  their  lives  been 
written,  unless  in  the  most  fragmentary  and  imperfect  fashion.  The 
period  during  which  these  things  might  have  been  rightly  done  has 
forever  passed. 

Thus,  over  their  genius  and  performances,  as  over  their  native  State, 
— the  Carolina  of  old, — oblivion,  day  by  day,  is  more  darkly  gathering. 
If  elements  of  a  new  political  birth  exist  in  that  unfortunate  section, 
they  are  now  hopelessly  confused  and  chaotic ! 

While  the  Past  recedes,  becoming  momently  more  ghostly  and 
phantasmal,  the  Future  is  wrapped  in  thick  clouds  and  darkness! 
Where,  indeed,  is  the  prophet  or  son  of  a  prophet  who  can  predict  the 
nature  of  that  new  Polity  destined  to  rise  from  the  old  institutions  and 
the  defunct  civilization? 

13* 


150  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Thy  beauty's  blasted  like  thy  desolate  coasts ; 

Where  now  thy  lustrous  form,  thy  shining  hair? 
Where  thy  bright  presence,  thine  imperial  eyes? 
Lost  in  dim  shadows  of  the  realm  of  Ghosts ! 


SONNET. 

LEIGH      HUNT. 

"  Leigh  Hunt  loves  everything:  he  catches  the  sunny  side  of  every 
thing,  and  —  except  a  few  polemical  antipathies  —  finds  everything 
beautiful." — HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON. 

DESPITE  misfortune,  poverty,  the  dearth 

Of  simplest  justice  to  his  heart  and  brain, — 

This  gracious  Optimist  lived  not  in  vain; 

Rather,  he  made  a  partial  Heaven  of  Earth ; 

For  whatsoe'er  of  pure  and  cordial  birth 

In  body  or  soul,  dawned  on  him,  he  was  fain 

To  bless  and  love,  as  an  immortal  gain, 

A  thing  divine,  of  fair  immaculate  worth: — 

The  clearest,  cleanest  nature  given  to  man 

In  these,  our  latter  days,  methinks  was  his, 

With  instincts  which  alone  did  bring  him  bliss; 

All  life  he  viewed  as  one  long,  luminous  plan 

Wherein  God's  love  and  wisdom  meet  and  kiss, — 

His  sole  brave  creed,  the  creed  Samaritan ! 


SONNET— SOUL   ADVANCES. 


SONNET. 

IN  yonder  grim,  funereal  forest  lies 

A  foul  lagoon,  o'erfilmed  by  dust  and  slime, 

Hidden  and  ghastly,  like  a  thought  of  crime 

In  some  stern  soul,  kept  secret  from  men's  eyes; 

But  if,  perchance,  a  healthful  breeze  should  rise, 

And  part  those  stifling  boughs,  sweet  morning's  prime, 

And  the  fair  flush  of  evening's  cordial  clime, 

Reflect  therein  the  calmly  glorious  skies  : 

Is't  so  with  man?  holds  not  the  darkened  breast, 

Turbid,  corrupt,  o'ergrown  by  worldliness, 

One  little  spot  whereon  love's  smile  may  rest? 

Lo !  a  pure  impulse  breathes,  the  sin-clouds  part, 

The  grief-defilements  melt  in  hopes  that  bless, 

And  pour  God's  quickening  sunshine  on  the  heart ! 


SONNET.        —  ;_ 

SOUL   ADVANCES. 

HE,  who  with  fervent  toil  and  will  austere, 

His  innate  forces,  and  high  faculties, 

Develops  ever,  with  firm  aim,  and  wise,— 

He  only  keeps  his  spiritual  vision  clear; 

To  him  earth's  treacherous  shadows  shift  and  veer 

Like  idle  mists  o'ercrowding  windless  skies, 


I52  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Where  through  ofttimes  to  purged  and  prayerful  eyes, 
The    steadfast    heavens    seem    beckoning    calm    and 

near: — 

Still,  o'er  life's  rugged  heights,  with  many  a  slip, 
And  painful  pause  he  journeys,  and  sad  fall, 
Toward  death's  dark  strand,  washed  by  a  mystic  sea; — 
There  her  worn  cable  straining  to  be  free, 
He  sees,  and  enters  Faith's  majestic  ship, 
To  sail — where1  er  the  voice  of  God  may  call! 


ODE   TO   SLEEP. 

BEYOND  the  sunset,  and  the  amber  sea 
To  the  lone  depths  of  Ether,  cold  and  bare, 
Thy  influence,  Soul  of  all  tranquillity, 
Hallows  the  Earth,  and  awes  the  reverent  air; 
Yon  laughing  rivulet  quells  its  silvery  tune, — 
The  Pines,  like  priestly  watchers  tall  and  grim, 
Stand  mute,  against  the  pensive  twilight  dim, 
Breathless  to  hail  the  advent  of  the  Moon; 
From  the  white  beach  the  Ocean  falls  away 
Coyly,  and  with  a  thrill ;  the  sea-birds  dart 
Ghostlike  from  out  the  distance,  and  depart 
With  a  gray  fleetness,  moaning  the  dead  Day; 
The  wings  of  Silence  overfolding  space, 
Droop  with  dusk  grandeur  from  the  heavenly  steep, 
And  through  the  stillness  gleams  thy  starry  face, 
Serenest  Angel — Sleep  ! 


ODE    TO   SLEEP. 

Come !  woo  me  here,  amid  these  flowery  charms, 
Breathe  on  my  eyelids;  press  thy  odorous  lips 
Close  to  mine  own,  enwreathe  me  in  thine  arms, 

And  cloud  my  spirit  with  thy  sweet  eclipse; 

No  dreams !  no  dreams !  keep  back  the  motley  throng, 
For  such  are  girded  round  with  ghastly  might, 
And  sing  low  burdens  of  despondent  song, 

Decked  in  the  mockery  of  a  lost  delight ; 

I  ask  Oblivion's  balsam !  the  mute  peace 

Toned  to  still  breathings,  and  the  gentlest  sighs, 

Not  music  woven  of  rarest  harmonies 
Could  yield  me  such  elysium  of  release: — 
The  tones  of  Earth  are  weariness, — not  only 
'Mid  the  loud  mart,  and  in  the  walks  of  trade, 
But  where  the  mountain  Genius  broodeth  lonely, 
In  the  cool  pulsing  of  the  sylvan  shade: — 
Then,  bear  me  far  into  thy  noiseless  land, 
Surround  me  with  thy  silence,  deep  on  deep, 

Until  serene  I  stand 

Close  by  a  duskier  country,  and  more  grand, 
Mysterious  Solitude,  than  thine,  O  Sleep ! 

As  he  whose  veins  a  feverous  frenzy  burns, 
Whose  life-blood  withers  in  the  fiery  drouth,— 
Feebly,  and  with  a  languid  longing,  turns 

To  the  spring  breezes  gathering  from  the  South, 

So,  feebly,  and  with  languid  longing,  I 

Turn  to  thy  wished  Nepenthe,  and  implore 

The  golden  dimness,  the  purpureal  gloom 

Which  haunt  thy  poppied  realm,  and  make  the  shore 

Of  thy  dominion  balmy  with  all  bloom: 

In  the  clear  gulfs  of  thy  serene  Profound, 


4  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Worn  Passions  sink  to  quiet,  Sorrows  pause, 
Suddenly  fainting  to  still-breathed  rest; — 
Thou  own'st  a  magical  atmosphere,  which  awes 
The  memories  seething  in  the  turbulent  breast ; 
Which  muffling  up  the  sharpness  of  all  sound 
Of  mortal  lamentation, — solely  bears 
The  silvery  minor  toning  of  our  woe, 
All  mellowed  to  harmonious  underflow, — 
Soft  as  the  sad  farewells  of  dying  years, — 
Lulling  as  sunset  showers  that  veil  the  West, 

And  sweet  as  Love's  last  tears 
When  overvvelling  hearts  do  mutely  weep: — 
O  Griefs !  O  wailings !  your  tempestuous  madness, 
Merged  in  a  regal  quietude  of  sadness, 
Wins  a  strange  glory  by  the  streams  of  Sleep ! 

Then  woo  me  here  amid  these  flowery  charms, 
Breathe  on  my  eyelids,  press  thy  odorous  lips 
Close  to  mine  owny — enfold  me  in  thine  arms, 
And  cloud  my  spirit  with  thy  sweet  eclipse; — 
And  while  from  waning  depth  to  depth  I  fall, 
Down  lapsing  to  the  utmost  depths  of  all, — 
Till  wan  forgetfulness  obscurely  stealing, 
Creeps  like  an  incantation  on  the  soul, — 
And  o'er  the  slow  ebb  of  my  conscious  life 
Dies  the  thin  flush  of  the  last  conscious  feeling, — 
And  like  abortive  thunder,  the  dull  roll 
Of  sullen  passions  ebbs  far,  far  away, — 
O  Angel !  loose  the  chords  which  cling  to  strife, 
Sever  the  gossamer  bondage  of  my  breath, — 
And  let  me  pass  gently  as  winds  in  May, 
From  the  dim  realm  which  owns  thy  shadowy  sway, 
To  THY  diviner  Sleep,  O  sacred  Death! 


SONG.  155 


SONG. 

O !  to  be 

By  the  sea,  the  sea ! 
While  a  brave  Nor' wester 's  blowing, 
With  a  swirl  on  the  lea, 
Of  cloud-foam  free, 
And  a  spring-tide  deeply  flowing ! 

With  the  low  moon  red  and  large, 
O'er  the  flushed  horizon's  marge, 
And  a  little  pink  hand  in  mine, 
On  the  sands  in  the  long  moonshine ! 

O !  to  be 

By  the  sea,  the  sea ! 
With  the  wind  full  west  and  dying, 
With  a  single  star 
O'er  the  misty  bar, 
And  the  dim  waves  dreamily  sighing ! 
O !  to  be  there,  but  there ! 
With  my  sweet  Love  nestling  near ! 
Near,  near,  till  her  heart-throbs  blend  with  mine, 
Through  the  balmy  hush  of  the  night's  decline, 
On  the  glimmering  beach,  in  the  soft  star-shine ! 


156  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


HOPES   AND   MEMORIES. 

OUR  hopes  in  youth  are  like  those  roseate  shadows 
Cast  by  the  sunlight  on  the  dewy  grass 
When  first  the  fair  Morn  opes  her  sapphire  eyes; 
They  seem  gigantic  and  yet  graceful  shades, 
Touched  with  bright  color.     As  our  sun  of  life 
Rises  towards  meridian,  less  and  less 
Grow  the  bright  tremulous  shadows,  till  at  last, 
tn  the  hot  dust  and  noontide  of  our  day, 
They  glimmer  to  blank  nothingness.     Again, 
That  grand  climacteric  passed,  the  shadows  gleam 
Bright  still,  perchance  (if  our  past  deeds  be  pure), — 
Bright  still,  but  all  reversed!  Eastward  they  point, 
Lengthening  and  lengthening  ever  toward  the  dawn ; 
For  hopes  have  then  grown  memories,  whose  strange  life 
Deepens  and  deepens  as  the  sunset  dies. 


WIDDERIN'S   RACE. 

(AUSTRALIAN.) 

(The  incidents  of  the  following  sketch  will  be  found  in  "The  Re 
collections  of  Geoffrey  Hamlin,"  by  Henry  Kingsley.) 

"A  HORSE  amongst  ten  thousand !  on  the  verge, 
The  extremest  verge  of  equine  life  he  stands ; 
Yet  mark  his  action,  as  those  wild  young  colts 
Freed  from  the  stock- yard  gallop  whinnying  up; 


WIDDERIN' S  RACE.  j^ 

See  how  he  trots  towards  them, — nose  in  air, 
Tail  arched,  and  his  still  sinewy  legs  out-thrown 
In  gallant  grace  before  him !     A  brave  beast 
As  ever  spurned  the  moorland,  ay,  and  more, — 
He  bore  me  once, — such  words  but  smite  the  truth 
I'  the  outer  ring,  while  vivid  memory  wakes, 
Recalling  now,  the  passion  and  the  pain, — 
He  bore  me  once  from  earthly  Hell  to  Heaven ! 

"The  sight  of  fine  old  Widderin  (that's  his  name, 
Caught  from  a  peak,  the  topmost  rugged  peak 
Of  tall  Mount  Widderin,  towering  to  the  North 
Most  like  a  steed's  head,  with  full  nostrils  blown. 
And  ears  pricked  up), — the  sight  of  Widderin  brings 
That  day  of  days  before  me,  whose  strange  hours 
Of  fear  and  anguish,  ere  the  sunset,  changed 
To  hours  of  such  content,  and  full-veined  joy, 
As  Heaven  can  give  our  mortal  lives  but  once. 

"Well,  here's  the  story :  While  yon  bush-fires  sweep 

The  distant  ranges,  and  the  river's  voice 

Pipes  a  thin  treble  through  the  heart  of  Drouth, — 

While  the  red  Heaven  like  some  huge  caldron's  top 

Seems  with  the  heat  a-simmering,  better  far 

In  place  of  riding  tilt  'gainst  such  a  sun, 

Here  in  the  safe  veranda's  flowery  gloom, 

To  play  the  dwarfish  Homer  to  a  song, 

Whereof  myself  am  hero: 

"Two  decades 

Have  passed  since  that  wild  autumn-time  when  last 
The  convict  hordes  from  near  Van  Diemen  freed 
By  force  or  fraud,  swept,  like  a  blood-red  fire, 
"4 


158 


LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


Inland  from  beach  to  mountain,  bent  on  raid 
And  rapine;  fiends  o'  thf  lowest  pit,  they  spared 
Nor  sex,  nor  age,  nor  infancy;  the  vulture 
Followed  their  track,  and  a  black  smoke  like  hell's 
Hung  its  foul  reek  above  each  home  accursed, 
Sacked  by  their  greed,  or  ravished  by  their  lust. 
Their  crimes  were  monstrous,  weird,  unutterable, 
Not  to  be  hinted,  save  in  awe-struck  whispers 
Dropped  by  dark  hearthstones,  far  from  maidens'  ears, 
In  the  blank,  silent  midnight !  all  the  land 
Uprose  to  seek,  confront,  and  decimate 
These  devils  spawned  of  Tophet;  but  their  bands 
At  the  first  bruit  of  battle,  the  first  clang 
Of  sabres  girding  honest  loins,  and  champ 
Of  horse-bits  held  by  manly  hands  that  burned 
To  smite  them,  hip  and  thigh,— fled,  disappeared, 
And  crouched  in  hiding,  wheresoe'er  the  Earth, 
By  wave  and  hillside,  forest,  and  bleak  tarn, 
Vouchsafed  to  shield  them ;  as  the  time  rolled  on, 
Our  fears  grew  lighter,  and  all  dread  was  quelled, 
When  on  a  morning,  'mid  the  outmost  reefs 
Of  rough  Cape  Boiling,  our  chief  herdsman  found 
The  carcass  of  a  huge  boat  overturned, 
All  stoven,  and  firmly  wedged  between  the  jaws 
Of  monster  rocks,  whereby  three  bodies  lay, 
Splashing  and  gurgling  in  the  refluent  tides, 
Well  known  as  corses  of  three  desperate  men, 
The  outlaws'  leaders;  thereupon  'twas  deemed,— 
And  all  must  own  with  fairest  likelihood, — 
That  glutted  by  their  vengeance,  or  spurred  on 
By  hopes  of  rapine,  beckoning  otherwhere, — 
The  whole  foul  crew  embarking,  had  been  seized 
By  wind  and  wave,  God's  Executioners, 


WIDDERIN'S  RACE.  *59 

The  pitiless  Doomsmen  of  the  wrath  of  Heaven, — 
And  so,  crushed  out  of  being,  and  made  less 
Than  the  vile  seaweed  dabbling  in  the  surf. 

"Thenceforth,  our  caution  cooled;  save  here  and  there, 

At  critical  mountain-passes,  or  lone  caves, 

And  sheltered  inlets  of  the  wild  Southwest, 

No  sentinels  watched ;  and  wherefore  should  they  watch? 

The  storm  had  threatened,  broken,  and  was  passed! 

''So,  in  late  Autumn, — 'twas  a  marvelous  morn, 

With  breezes  from  the  calm  snow-river  borne 

That  touched  the  air,  and  stirred  it  into  thrills, 

Mysterious  and  mesmeric,  a  bright  mist 

Lapping  the  landscape  like  a  golden  trance, 

Swathing  the  hilltops  with  fantastic  veils, 

And  o'er  the  moorland-ocean  quivering  light 

As  gossamer  threads  drawn  down  the  forest  aisles 

At  dewy  dawning, — on  this  marvelous  morn, 

I,  with  four  comrades,  in  this  self-same  spot, 

Watched  the  fair  scene,  and  drank  the  spicy  airs, 

That  held  a  subtler  spirit  than  our  wine, 

And  talked  and  laughed,  and  mused  in  idleness, — 

Weaving  vague  fancies,  as  our  pipe-wreaths  curled 

Fantastic  in  the  sunlight !     I,  with  head 

Thrown  back,  and  cushioned  snugly,  and  with  eyes 

Intent  on  one  grotesque  and  curious  cloud, 

Puffed  upward,  that  now  seemed  to  take  the  shape 

Of  a  Dutch  tulip,  now  a  Turk's  face  topped 

By  folds  on  folds  of  turban  limitless, — • 

Heard  suddenly,  just  as  the  clock  chimed  one, 

To  melt  in  musical  echoes  up  the  hills, 

Quick  footsteps  on  the  graveled  path  without, — 


!6o  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Steps  of  the  couriers  of  calamity, — 

So  my  heart  told  me, — ere  with  blanched  regards, 

Two  stalwart  herdsmen  on  our  threshold  paused, 

Panting,  with  lips  that  writhed,  and  awful  eyes; — 

A  breath's  space  in  each  other's  eyes  we  glared, 

Then,  swift  as  interchange  of  lightning  thrusts 

In  deadly  combat,  question  and  reply 

Clashed    sharply,    '  What !    the    Rangers  ?'      '  Ay,    by 

Heaven ! 
And  loosed    in    force,  —  the  hell-hounds!'     'Whither 

bound?' 

I  stammered,  hoarsely.      'Bound,'  the  elder  said, 
'  Southward  ! — four  stations  had  they  sacked  and  burnt, 

And  now,  drunk,  furious '  but  I  stopped  to  hear 

No  more;  with  booming  thunder  in  mine  ears, 
And  blood-flushed  eyes,  I  rushed  to  Widderin's  side, 
Drew  tight  the  girths,  upgathered  curb  and  rein, 
And  sprang  to  horse  ere  yet  our  laggard  friends, — 
Now  trooping  from  the  green  veranda's  shade, — 
Could  dream  of  action ! 

"Love  had  winged  my  will, 
For  to  the  southward,  fair  Garoopna  held 
My  all  of  hope,  life,  passion;  she  whose  hair 
(Its  tiniest  strand  of  waving,  witch-like  gold) 
Had  caught  my  heart,  entwined,  and  bound  it  fast, 
As  'twere  some  sweet  enchantment's  heavenly  net! 

"I  only  gave  a  hand-wave  in  farewell, 
Shot  by,  and  o'er  the  endless  moorland  swept 
(Endless  it  seemed,  as  those  weird,  measureless  plains, 
Which,  in  some  nightmare  vision,  stretch  and  stretch 
Towards  infinity!)  like  some  lone  ship 


WIDDERIN'S  RACE.  161 

O'er  wastes  of  sailless  waters:   now,  a  Pine, 

The  beacon  Pine  gigantic,  whose  grim  crown 

Signals  the  far  land-mariner  from  out 

Gaunt  boulders  of  the  gray-backed  Organ  hill, 

Rose  on  my  sight,  a  mistlike,  wavering  orb, — 

The  while,  still  onward,  onward,  onward  still, 

With  motion  winged,  elastic,  equable, 

Brave  Widderin  cleaved  the  air-tides,  tossed  aside 

The  winds  as  waves,  their  swift,  invisible  breasts, 

Hissing  with  foamlike  noise  when  pressed  and  pierced 

By  that  keen  head  and  fiery-crested  form ! 

"The  lonely  shepherd  guardian  on  the  plains, 
Watching  his  sheep  through  languid,  half-shut  eyes, 
Looked  up,  and  marveled,  as  we  passed  him  by, 
Thinking,  perchance,  it  was  a  glorious  thing, 
So  dressed,  so  booted,  so  caparisoned, 
To  ride  such  bright  blood-coursers  unto  death ! 
Two  sun-blacked  Natives,  slumbering  in  the  grass, 
Just  rose  betimes  to  'scape  the  trampling  hoofs, 
And  hurled  hot  curses  at  me  as  I  sped; 
While  here  and  there,  the  timid  kangaroo 
Blundered  athwart  the  mole-hills,  and  in  puffs 
Of  steamy  dust-cloud  vanished  like  a  mote ! 

"Onward,  still  onward,  onward,  onward  still! 
And  lo!   thank  Heaven,  the  mighty  Organ  hill, 
That  seemed  a  dim  blue  cloudlet  at  the  start, 
Hangs  in  aerial,  fluted  cliffs  aloft, — 
And  still  as  through  the  long,  low  glacis  borne, 
Beneath  the  gorge  borne  ever  at  wild  speed, 
I  saw  the  mateless  mountain  eagle  wheel 
Beyond  the  stark  height's  topmost  pinnacle; 
14* 


1 62  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

I  heard  his  shriek  of  rage  and  rivin  die 
Deep  down  the  desolate  dells,  as  far  behind 
I  left  the  gorge,  and  far  before  me  swept 
Another  plain,  tree-bordered  now,  and  bound 
By  the  clear  river  gurgling  o'er  its  bed. 

"By  this,  my  panting,  but  unconquered  steed 
Had  thrown  his  small  head  backward,  and  his  breath 
.Through  the  red  nostrils  burst  in  labored  sighs ; 
I  bent  above  his  outstretched  neck,  I  threw 
My  quivering  arms  about  him,  murmuring  low, 
'  Good  horse !  brave  heart !  a  little  longer  bear 
The  strain,  the  travail;  and  thenceforth  for  thee 
Free  pastures  all  thy  days,  till  death  shall  come ! 
Ah,  many  and  many  a  time,  my  noble  Bay, 
Her  lily  hand  hath  wandered  through  thy  mane, 
Patted  thy  rainbow  neck,  and  brought  thee  ears 
Of  daintiest  corn  from  out  the  farm-house  loft, — 
Help,  help  to  save  her  now!' 

"I'll  vow  the  brute 

Heard  me,  and  comprehended  what  he  heard ! 
He  shook  his  proud  crest  madly,  and  his  eye 
Turned  for  a  moment  sideways,  flashed  in  mine 
A  lightning  gleam,  whose  fiery  language  said, 
'I  know  my  lineage,  will  not  shame  my  sire, — 
My  sire,  who  rushed  triumphant  'twixt  the  flags, 
And  frenzied  thousands,  when  on  Epsom  downs 
Arcturus  won  the  Derby ! — no,  nor  shame 
My  granddam,  whose  clean  body,  half  enwrought 
Of  air,  half  fire,  through  swirls  of  desert  sand 
Bore  Shiek  Abdallah  headlong  on  his  prey!' 


WIDDERIN'S  RACE.  163 

"At  last  came  forest  shadows,  and  the  road 
Winding  through  bush  and  bracken,  and  at  last 
The  hoarse  stream  rumbling  o'er  its  quartz-sown  crags. 

"No,  no!  stanch  Widderin !  pause  not  now  to  drink; 

An  hour  hence,  and  thy  dainty  nose  shall  dip 

In  richest  wine,  poured  jubilantly  forth 

To  quench  thy  thirst,  my  Beauty!  but  press  on, 

Nor  heed  these  sparkling  waters.  God  !  my  brain's 

On  fire  once  more !  an  instant  tells  me  all ; 

All! — life  or  death, — salvation  or  despair! — 

For  yonder,  o'er  the  wild  grass-matted  slope 

The  house  stands,  or  it  stood  but  yesterday. 

"A  Titan  cry  of  inarticulate  joy 

I  raised,  as  calm  and  peaceful  in  the  sun, 

Shone  the  fair  cottage,  and  the  garden-close, 

Wherein,  white-robed,  unconscious,  sat  my  Love    % 

Lilting  a  low  song  to  the  birds  and  flowers. 

She  heard  the  hoof-strokes,  saw  me,  started  up, 

And  with  her  blue  eyes  wider  than  their  wont, 

And  rosy  lips  half  tremulous,  rushed  to  meet 

And  greet  me  swiftly.     'Up,  dear  Love!'  I  cried, 

'The  Convicts,  the  Bush-Rangers ! — let  us  fly!' 

Ah,  then  and  there  you  should  have  seen  her,  friend, 

My  noble,  beauteous  Helen !  not  a  tear, 

Nor  sob,  and  scarce  a  transient  pulse- quiver, 

As,  clasping  hand  in  hand,  her  fairy  foot 

Lit  like  a  small  bird  on  my  horseman's  boot, 

And  up  into  the  saddle,  lithe  and  light, 

Vaulting  she  perched,  her  bright  curls  round  my  face ! 

"We  crossed  the  river,  and,  dismounting,  led 


1 64  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

O'er  the  steep  slope  of  blended  rock  and  turf, 

The  wearied  horse,  and  there  behind  a  Tor 

Of  castellated  bluestone,  paused  to  sweep 

With  young  keen  eyes  the  broad  plain  stretched  afar, 

Serene  and  Autumn-tinted  at  our  feet : 

'Either,'  said  I,  'these  devils  have  gone  East, 

To  meet  with  bloodhound  Desborough  in  his  rage 

Between  the  granite  passes  of  Luxorme, 

Or  else, — dear  Christ!  my  Helen,  low!  stoop  low!' 

(These  words  were  hissed  in  horror,  for  just  then, 

'Twixt  the  deep  hollows  of  the  river- vale, 

The  miscreants,  with  mixed  shouts  and  curses,  poured 

Down  through  the  flinty  gorge  tumultuously, 

Seeming,  we  thought,  in  one  fierce  throng  to  charge 

Our  hiding-place.)     I  seized  my  Widderin's  head, 

Blindfolding  him,  for  with  a  single  neigh 

Our  fate  were  sealed  o'  th'  instant !     As  they  rode, 

Those  wild,  foul-languaged  demons  by  our  lair, 

Scarce  twelve  yards  off,  my  troubled  steed  shook  wide 

His  streaming  mane,  stamped  on  the  earth,  and  pawed 

So  loudly,  that  the  sweat  of  agony  rolled 

Down  my  cold  forehead ;  at  which  point,  I  felt 

My  arm  clutched,  and  a  voice  I  did  not  know, 

Dropped  the  low  murmur  from  pale,  shuddering  lips, 

'  O  God !  if  in  those  brutal  hands  I  fall, 

Living,  look  not  into  your  mother's  face 

Or  any  woman's  more!' 

"What  time  had  passed 

Above  our  bowed  heads,  we  pent,  pinioned  there 
By  awe  and  nameless  horror,  who  shall  tell? 
Minutes,  perchance,  by  mortal  measurement, 
Eternity  by  heart-throbs!— when  at  length 


OCTOBER.  165 

We  turned,  and  eyes  of  mutual  wonder  raised, 

We  gazed  on  alien  faces,  haggard,  worn, 

And  strange  of  feature  as  the  faces  born 

In  fever  and  delirium  !     Were  we  saved? 

We  scarce  could  comprehend  it,  till,  from  out 

The  neighboring  oak-wood,  rode  our  friends  at  speed, 

WTith  clang  of  steel  and  eyebrows  bent  in  wrath. 

But  warned  betimes,  the  wily  ruffians  fled 

Far  up  the  forest-coverts,  and  beyond 

The  dazzling  snow-line  of  the  distant  hills, 

Their  yells  of  fiendish  laughter  pealing  faint, 

And  fainter  from  the  cloudland,  and  the  mist 

That  closed  about  them  like  an  ash-gray  shroud : 

Yet  were  these  wretches  marked  for  imminent  death : 

The  next  keen  sunrise  pierced  the  savage  gorge, 

To  which  we  tracked  them,  where,  mere  beasts  at  bay, — 

Grimly  they  fought,  and  brute  by  brute  they  fell." 


OCTOBER. 

AFAR  from  the  city,  its  cark  and  care, — 
Thank  God !  I  am  cosily  seated  here, 

On  this  night  of  hale  October, — 
While  the  flames  leap  high  on  the  roaring  hearth, 
And  voices,  the  dearest  to  me  on  earth, 
Ring  out  in  the  music  of  household  mirth, 

For  the  time  is  blithe  October ! 

There's  something, — but  whatl  can  scarce  divine,- 
Perchance  'tis  the  breath  like  a  potent  wine, — 
Of  the  cordial,  clear  October, — 


1 66  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Which  makes,  when  the  jovial  month  comes  round, 
The  life-blood  bloom,  and  the  pulses  bound, 
And  the  soul  spring  forth  like  a  monarch  crown'd, — 
God's  grace  on  the  brave  October! 

Come,  Sweetheart !  open  your  choicest  bin, 
For  who,  I  would  marvel,  could  deem  it  sin, 

On  this  night  of  keen  October, 
To  quaff  one  health  to  his  ruddy  cheer, 
On  the  golden  edge  of  the  waning  year, 
To  his  eyes  so  bright,  and  his  cheeks  so  clear, — 

Our  bluff  ''King  Hal,"— October? 

Away  with  Rhenish  and  light  Champagne ! 
'Tis  not  in  these  we  must  pledge  the  reign 

Of  the  stout  old  Lord, — October; 
But  in  mighty  stoups  of  the  "mountain  dew," 
With  "beads"  like  tears  in  an  eye  of  blue, 
But  tears  of  a  laughter,  sound  and  true, 

As  thine  honest  heart,  October ! 

He  brought  me  love  and  he  brought  me  health, 
He  brought  me  all  but  the  curse  of  wealth, 

This  kindly  and  free  October; 
And  forever  and  aye  I  will  bless  his  name, 
While  his  winds  blow  fresh,  and  his  sunsets  flame, 
And  the  whole  earth  burns  with  his  crimson  fame, 

This  Prince  of  the  months, — October ! 


HERE  AND    THERE.  167 


HERE   AND   THERE.* 

HERE  the  warm  sunshine  fills 

Like  wine  of  gods  the  deepening,  cup-shaped  dells, 
Embossed  with  marvelous  flowers;  the  happy  rills 
Roam  through  the  autumnal  fields  whose  rich  increase 
Of  gathered  grain  smiles  under  heavens  of  peace; 

While  many  a  bird-song  swells 
From  glades  of  neighboring  woodlands,  cool  and  fair, — 

Content  and  Peace  are  here. 

THERE  the  wild  Battle's  wrath 
Thunders  from  castled  height  to  storied  plain, 
Plows  with  red  lightning-bolts  its  terrible  path, 
And  sows  the  abhorrent  seeds  of  blood  and  death, 
Blown  far  on  Desolation's  tameless  breath, — 

While  for  autumnal  grain 
Time  reaps  the  harvest  of  a  bleak  despair, — 

God's  curse  consumes  them  there. 

HERE  jovial  children  play 
Beneath  the  latest  vine-leaves;  innocent  kings, 
And  blissful  queens, — on  them  the  matron  Day, 
Like  a  sweet  mother,  drops  her  kisses  light ; 
The  very  clouds  some  secret  joy  makes  bright, — 

And  round  us  clings  and  clings 
With  Ariel  arms,  the  season's  influence  rare, — 

Heaven's  heart  beats  near  us  here. 

*  Written  during  the  war  between  France  and  Germany. 


1 68  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

THERE  Love  bemoans  its  lost, 
Countless  as  seaside  sands;  all  joys  of  life 
Rest  locked  and  stirless  in  the  blood-red  frost; 
Ye  drums  roll  out,  shrill  clarions  peal  your  parts ! 
Ye  cannot  drown  the  wail  of  broken  hearts, 

Nor  still  that  spiritual  strife 

Which  thrills  through  Victory's  voice  its  death-notes 
drear, — 

Dear  Christ,  soothe,  save  them  there! 


ODE       (,£> 

IN    HONOR    OF    THE    BRAVERY   AND    SACRIFICES    OF    THE 
SOLDIERS    OF   THE    SOUTH. 

WITH  bavonets  slanted  in  the  glittering  light, 

With  solemn  roll  of  drums, 
With  star-lit  banners  rustling  wings  of  might, 

The  knightly  concourse  comes  ! 
The  flower  and  fruit  of  all  the  tropic  lands, 
The  unsheathed  brightness  of  their  stainless  brands 

Blazing  in  courtly  hands, — 
One  glorious  soul  within  those  thousand  eyes, — 
One  aim,  one  hope,  one  impulse  from  the  skies, — 

While  silent,  awed  and  dumb, 
A  nation  waits  the  end  in  dread  surmise, 

They  come !  they  come ! 

The  summer  flaunts  her  vivid  leaves  above 
The  unwonted  scene, — 


THE   SOLDIERS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  169 

The  summer  heavens  embrace  with  smiles  of  love 

The  hill-slopes  green ; 
Far  in  the  uppermost  realms  of  silent  air 
Peace  sits  enthroned  and  happy,  but  on  earth 
The  cymbals  clash,  and  the  shrill  trumpets  blare, 
And  Death,  like  some  grim  Mower  on  the  plain, 

Topped  by  the  ripened  grain, 
Whets  his  keen  scythe,  and  shakes  it  fearfully ! 

Our  serried  lines  march  sternly  to  the  front, 
Where  decked  as  if  they  rose  to  celebrate 

A  joyous  festal  morn, 
In  glistening  pomp  and  splendid  blazonry, 

Slow  moving  as  in  scorn 

Of  those  weak  bands  that  guard  the  pass  below, 
Come  gorgeous,  flushed  and  proud,  the  cohorts  of  the 
foe! 

They  wheel !  deploy,  are  stationed,  down  the  cleft 

Of  the  long  gorge  their  signal  thunders  run ! 
A  sullen  answer  echoes  from  our  left 

And  the  great  fight's  begun ! 
O!  who  shall  picture  the  immortal  fray? 
Our  Southern  host  that  day 
Breasted  the  onset  of  the  invading  sea 
With  wills  of  adamant;  but  stern-weighted  strength, 
Like  waves  by  some  infernal  alchemy 
Hardened,  transformed  to  solid  metal,  burning 
At  white  heat  as  they  struck,  and  aye  returning 
Hotter  and  more  resistless  than  hefore 
(All  flecked  atop  with  foam  of  human  gore), 
Pierced  here  and  there  our  crumbling  ranks  at  length, 
Which  as  a  mountain  shore, 
15 


I70  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 

Rock-ribbed  and  iron  founded,  still  had  stood, 

And  outward  hurled 

In  bloody  sprayings,  that  tremendous  flood 
Which,  with  wild  charge  and  furious  brunt  on  brunt, 
Had  dashed  against  us  like  a  fiery  world ! 


Unceasing  still  poured  on  the  fateful  tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
On  the  red  billows  of  the  northland  war ! 

Our  glory  and  pride 

Had  fallen, — fallen  in  the  terrible  van, — 
Like  wine  the  life-streams  ran ; 
"Back!  back!"  cried  one  (it  was  the  voice  of  Bee, 
Lifted  in  wrath  and  bitter  agony), 
"We're  driven  backward!"  unto  whom  there  came 
An  answer,  like  the  rush  of  steady  flame, 
'Twixt  ribs  of  iron,  "We  will  give  them  yet 

The  bayonet ! 

The  sharp  edge  of  the  Southern  bayonet!" 
At  which  the  other's  face  flushed  up,  and  caught 
Light  like  a  warrior-angel's,  and  he  sprang 
To  the  front  rank,  while  swift  as  passionate  thought 
Leaped  forth  his  sword,  and  this  high  summons  rang : 

"See!  see!  where  fixed  and  grand, 
Like  a  stone  wall  the  braves  of  Jackson  stand  ! ' ' 
"Forward!"  and  on  he  rushed  with  quivering  breath, 

On  to  his  Spartan  death ! 


Unceasing  still  poured  down  the  fateful  tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
O'er  the  red  billows  of  the  northland  war! 
When  faint  and  far, 


THE  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


171 


Far  on  our  left  there  rose  a  sound  that  thrilled 
All  souls,  and  even  the  battle's  thunderous  pulse 
(Or  so  we  deemed),  for  briefest  space  was  stilled; 
A  sound,  low  hissing  as  a  meteor-  tar, 
But  gathering  depth  of  volume,  till  it  burst 

In  one  great  flamelike  cheer, 
That  seemed  to  rend  and  lift  the  cloud  accurst, 

The  poisonous-clinging  cloud 

That  wrapped  us  in  its  shroud,  • 

While  wounded  men  leaped  on  their  feet  to  hear, 
And  dying  men  upraised  their  eyes  to  see 
How  on  the  conflict's  lowering  canopy, 
Dawned  the  first  rainbow  hues  of  victory ! 


Have  you  watched  the  Condor  leap 
From  his  proud  Andean  rock, 
And  with  hurtling  pinions  sweep 
On  the  valley-pasturing  flock  ? 
Have  you  watched  an  Eygre  vast 
On  the  rude  September  blast 
Roll  adown  with  curved  crest 
O'er  the  low  sands  of  the  West? 
O !  thus  and  thus  they  came 
(Four  thousand  men  and  more), 
Hearts,  faces, — all  aflame, 
And  the  grandeur  of  their  wrath 
Whirled  the  Tyrant  from  their  path 
As  the  frightened  rack  is  driven 
By  the  unleashed  winds  in  heaven ; 
Then,  maddened,  tossed  aboul 
In  a  reckless,  hopeless  rout, 
The  Northern  army  fled 
O'er  their  dying  and  their  dead, 


172  LEGENDS  AND    LYRICS. 

And  the  Southern  steel  flashed  out, 
And  their  vengeful  points  were  red 
With  the  hot  heart's  tide  that  flowed 
Where  they  sabred  as  they  rode ! 
And  the  news  sped  on  apace 
(Where  the  Rulers,  in  their  place, 
Sat  jubilant,  one  and  all), 
Till  a  shadow  seemed  to  fall 
Round  their  joyance  like  a  pall, 
And  the  inmost  Senate-hall 
Pealed  an  echo  of  disgrace ! 
At  the  set  of  July's  sun 
They  stood  quivering  and  undone, 
For  the  eagle  standards  waned  and  the  Southern  "stars" 
had  won !       ). 

Thus  loomed  serene  and  large 

Upon  that  desperate  contest's  lurid  marge 
Our  orb  of  destiny;  millions  of  hearts 

Throb  with  bold  exultation, 

Till  there  starts 

From  mountain  fastness,  and  from  waving  plain, 
From  wooded  swamp  and  mist-encircled  main, 

From  hamlet,  city,  field, 

And  the  rich  midland  weald, 
The  spirit  of  the  antique  Hero  Time ! 
O  !   'twas  a  sight  sublime 
To  watch  the  upheaval  of  the  popular  soul, — 
The  stormy  gathering, — the  majestic  roll 
Upward  of  its  wild  forces,  by  the  awe 
Of  Right  and  Justice  steadied  into  law ! 
Faith  lent  our  cause  its  heavenly  consecration ! 

Hope  its  omnipotent  might ! 
And  Fame  stood  ready,  with  her  flowers  of  light. 


THE   SOLDIERS   OF   THE   SOUTH.  I73 

To  crown  alike  the  living  and  the  dead, 
While  in  the  broadening  firmament  o'erhead 
We  seemed  to  read  the  fiat  of  our  fate, 

"Ye  are  baptized,— a  Nation! 
Amongst    the   freest,    free,— amongst    the    mightiest, 

great ! ' ' 
An  ominous  hush !  and  then  the  scattered  clouds 

In  the  dark  northern  heaven 
(Clouds  of  a  deadlier  strife), 

Urged  by  the  poison  wind 

Of  rage  and  rapine,  sullenly  combined, 
Charged  with  the  bolts  of  ruin !  what  were  shrouds, 
Crimsoned  with  gore?  the  widowed  spirit  riven? 
The  desecration  of  God's  gift  of  life, 
To  that  one  thought  (three  fiery  strands  uniting, 

Hot  from  a  Had  can  loom), 

"Conquest!"  "Revenge!"  "Supremacy?"  The  blight 
ing 

Of  untold  promises,  the  grief,  the  gloom, 
The  desolate  madness  and  the  anguish  blind, 

All  spreading  on  and  on 
From  murdered  sire  to  subjugated  son, 
Were  less  than  nothing  to  the  arrogant  pride 
Which  treaties,  compacts,  honor,  laws  defied, 
And  aimed  above  the  wrecks  of  temple  and  tower 
To  rear  the  symbols  of  its  merciless  power ! 

Four  deadly  years  we  fought, 
Ringed  by  a  girdle  of  unfaltering  fire, 
That  coiled  and  hissed  in  lessening  circles  nigher. 

Blood  dyed  the  Southern  wave; 
From  ocean  border  to  calm  inland  river, 
There  was  no  pause,  no  peace,  no  respite  ever. 


174 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


Blood  of  our  bravest  brave 
Drenched  in  a  scarlet  rain  the  western  lea, 
Swelled  the  hoarse  waters  of  the  Tennessee, 
Incarnadined  the  gulfs,  the  lakes,  the  rills, 
And  from  a  hundred  hills 
Steamed  in  a  mit..  of  slaughter  to  the  skies, 
Shutting  all  hope  of  heaven  from  mortal  eyes. 
The  Beaufort  blooms  were  withered  on  the  stem; 

The  fair  gulf  city  in  a  single  night 

Lost  her  imperial  diadem ; 
And  wheresoe'er  men's  troubled  vision  sought, 
They  viewed  MIGHT  towering  o'er  the  humbled  crest 
of  RIGHT! 

But  for  a  time,  but  for  a  time,  O  God ! 
The  innate  forces  of  our  knightly  blood 
Rallied,  and  by  the  mount,  the  fen,  the  flood, 

Upraised  the  tottering  standards  of  our  race. 
O  grand  Virginia'  though  thy  glittering  glaive 
Lies  sullied,  shattered  in  a  ruthless  grave, 
How  it  flashed  once !  They  dug  their  trenches  deep 
(The  implacable  foe),  they  ranged  their  lines  of  wrath; 
But  watchful  ever  on  the  imminent  path, 

Thy  steel-clad  genius  stood ; 
North,  South,  East,  West, — they  strove  to  pierce  thy 

shield ; 

Thou  would' '  st  net  yield  ! 

/   Until, — unconquered,  yea,  unconquered  still, —    ^~ 
I  NATURE'S  weakened  forces  answered  not  thy  WILL,  / 
i    And  gored  with  wound  on  wound, 
,    Thy  fainting  limbs  and  forehead  sought  the  ground; 

And  with  thee  the  young  nation  fell,  a  pall 
*  Solemn  and  rayless,  covering  one  and  all ! 


THE  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  SOUTH.     175 

God's  ways  are  marvelous;  here  we  stand  to-day 
Discrowned,  and  shorn,  in  wildest  disarray, 
The  mock  of  earth !  yet  never  shone  the  sun 
On  sterner  deeds,  or  nobler  victories  won. 
Not  in  the  field  alone;  ah,  come  with  me 
To  the  dim  bivouac  by  the  winter's  sea; 
Mark  the  fair  sons  of  courtly  mothers  crouch 
O'er  flickering  fires;  but  gallant  still,  and  gay 
As  on  some  bright  parade;  or  mark  the  couch 

In  reeking  hospitals,  whereon  is  laid 
The  latest  scion  of  a  line  perchance, 
Whose  veins  were  royal ;  close  your  blurred  romance, 
Blurred  by  the  dropping  of  a  maudlin  tear, 
And  watch  the  manhood  here ; 

That  firm  but  delicate  countenance, 
Distorted  sometimes  by  an  awful  pang, 
Borne  in  meek  patience;  when  the  trumpets  rang 
"To  horse!"  but  yester-morn,  that  ardent  boy 
Sprung  to  his  charger,  thrilled  with  hope  and  joy 
To  the  very  finger-tips,  and  now  he  lies, 
The  shadows  deepening  in  those  falcon  eyes, 

But  calm  and  undismayed, 

As  if  the  Death  that  chills  him,  brow  and  breast, 
Were  some  fond  bride  who  whispered,  "Let  us'rest!" 

Enough!   'tis  over!   the  last  gleam  of  hope 
Hath  melted  from  our  mournful  horoscope, — 

Of  all,  of  all  bereft, 
\        Only  to  us  are  left 

Our  buried  heroes  and  their  matchless  deeds; 
These  cannot  pass;  they  hold  the  vital  seeds 
WThich  in  some  far,  untracked,  unvisioned  hour 
May  burst  to  vivid  bud  and  glorious  flower.v 


176  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  nation's  broken  heart 
Her  martyrs  sleep.     O  !  dearer  far  to  her, 
Than  if  each  son,  a  wreathed  conqueror, 

Rode  in  triumphant  state 

The  loftiest  crest  of  fate; 
O  !  dearer  far,  because  outcast  and  low, 
She  yearns  above  them  in  her  awful  woe. 
One  spring  its  tender  blooms 
Hath  lavished  richly  by  those  hallowed  tombs; 
One  summer  its  imperial  largess  spread 
Along  our  heroes'  bed ; 
One  autumn  wailing  with  funereal  blast, 
The  withered  leaves  and  pallid  dust  amassed 
All  round  about  them,  till  bleak  winter  now 
Hangs  hoar-frost  on  the  grasses,  and  the  bough 

In  dreary  woodlands  seems  to  thrill  and  start, 
Thrill  to  the  anguish  of  the  wind  that  raves 
Across  those  lonely,  desolated  graves ! 
1866. 


SONNET. 

ILLEGITIMATE. 

THE  maiden  SPRING  came  laughing  down  the  dales, 
Her  fair  brows  arched,  and  on  her  rosebud  mouth, 
The  balm  and  beauty  of  the  lustrous  South; 
Through  soft  green  fields,  from  hills  to  happy  vales, 
She  tripped,  her  small  feet  twinkling  in  the  sun ; 
Her  delicate  finger  raised  with  girlish  mirth, 
Pointed  at  graybeard  Winter,  who,  in  dearth, 


SONNET. 


177 


Toiled  toward  his  couch,  his  long  day  labor  done; 
Ah  no,  not  done !  for  hark !  a  sudden  wind, 
Death-laden,  sweeps  from  realms  of  arctic  sky, 
And  blurred  with  storm,  the  morn  grows  crazed  and  blind; 
Then,  WINTER  mocking,  backward  turns  apace, 
Where  pallid  Spring,  all  vainly  strives  to  fly, 
And  with  brute  buffet  scars  her  shrinking  face ! 


SONNET. 

VERNAL  PICTURES  (WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN). 

AMID  fresh  roses  wandering,  and  the  soft 
And  delicate  wealth  of  apple-blossoms  spread 
In  tender  spirals  of  blent  white  and  red, 
Round  the  fair  spaces  of  our  blooming  croft, — 
This  morn  I  caught  the  gurgling  note,  so  oft 
Heard  in  the  golden  spring-tides  that  are  dead, — 
The  Swallow's  note,  murmuring  of  winter  fled, 
Dropped  silverly  from  passionless  calms  aloft : — 
"O  heart!"  I  said,  "thy  vernal  depths  unclose, 
That  mirror  Nature's;  warm  airs,  come  and  go 
Of  whispering  Ardors  o'er  Thought's  budded  rose, 
And  half-hid  flowers  of  sweet  philosophy; 
While  now  upglancing,  now  borne  swift  and  low, 
SONG  like  the  swallow  darts  through  Fancy's  sky." 


1 78  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


WELCOME   TO   WINTER. 

Now,  with  wild  and  windy  roar, 
Stalwart  Winter  comes  once  more, — 
O'er  our  roof-tree  thunders  loud, 
And  from  edges  of  black  cloud 
Shakes  his  beard  of  hoary  gold, 
Like  a  tangled  torrent  rolled 
Down  the  sky-rifts,  clear  and  cold ! 

Hark !  his  trumpet  summons  rings, 

Potent  as  a  warrior-king's; 

Till  the  forces  of  our  blood 

Rise  to  lusty  hardihood, 

And  our  summer's  languid  dreams 

Melt,  like  form-wreaths,  down  the  streams, 

When  the  fierce  northeasters  roll, 

Raving  from  the  frozen  pole. 

Nobler  hopes,  and  keener  life, 
Quicken  in  his  breath  of  strife; 
Through  the  snow-storms  and  the  sleet 
On  he  stalks  with  armed  feet, 
While  the  sounding  clash  of  hail 
Clanging  on  his  icy  mail, 
Stirs  whate'er  of  generous  might 
Time  hath  left  us  in  his  flight, 
And  our  yearning  pulses  thrill 
For  some  grand  achievement  still ! 

Lord  of  ice-bound  sea  and  land, 
Let  me  grasp  thy  kingly  hand, — 


WILL.  179 

And  from  thy  great  heart  and  bold, 
Hecla-warm,  though  all  is  cold 
Round  about  thee,  catch  the  fire 
Of  my  lost  youth's  brave  desire ; 
Let  me, — in  the  war  with  wrong, — 
Like  thy  storms,  be  swift  and  strong, — 
Gloomy  griefs,  and  coward  cares, 
Broods  of  'wildering,  dark  despairs, 
Making  all  life's  glory  dim, — 
Let  me  rend  them,  limb  from  limb, 
As  the  forest-boughs  are  rent 
When  thou  wak'st  the  firmament, 
And  with  savage  shriek  and  groan 
All  the  wild  wood's  overthrown  ! 


WILL. 


6  -  (>- 


YOUR  face,  my  boy,  when  six  months  old, 
We  propped  you  laughing  in  a  chair, — 
And  the  sun-artist  caught  the  gold 

Which  rippled  o'er  your  waving  hair ! 
And  deftly  shadowed  forth  the  while 
That  blooming  cheek,  that  roguish  smile, 

Those  dimples  seldom  still : 
The  tiny,  wondering,  wide-eyed  elf! 
Now,  can  you  recognize  yourself 

In  that  small  portrait,  Will  ? 

I  glance  at  it,  then  turn  to  you, 

Where  in  your  healthful  ease  you  stand, 
1  No  Beauty, — but  a  youth  as  true, 
And  pure  as  any  in  the  land  ! 


i8o  LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 

I  For  Nature,  through  fair  sylvan  ways, 
i  Hath  led  and  gladdened  all  your  days, 

Kept  free  from  sordid  ill ; 
Hath  filled  your  veins  with  blissful  fire, 
'  /  And  winged  your  instincts  to  aspire 
Sunward,  and  Godward,  Will ! 

Long-limbed  and  lusty,  with  a  stride 

That  leaves  me  many  a  pace  behind, 
You  roam  the  woodlands,  far  and  wide, 

You  quaff  great  draughts  of  country  wind  ; 
While  tree  and  wildflower,  lake  and  stream, 
Deep  shadowy  nook,  and  sunshot  gleam, 

Cool  vale  and  far-off  hill, 
Each  plays  its  mute  mysterious  part, 
In  that  strange  growth  of  mind  and  heart, 
I  joy  to  witness,  Will ! 

"Can  this  tall  youth,"  I  sometimes  say, 
"Be  mine?  my  son?"  it  surely  seems 
Scarce  further  backward  than  a  day, 

Since  watching  o'er  your  feverish  dreams 
In  that  child-illness  of  the  brain, 
I  thought  (O  Christ,  with  what  keen  pain  !) 

Your  pulse  would  soon.be  still, — 
That  all  your  boyish  sports  were  o'er, 
And  I,  heart-broken,  nevermore 

Should  call,  or  clasp  you,  Will ! 

But  Heaven  was  kind,  Death  passed  you  by; 

And  now  upon  youf  arm  I  lean, 
My  second  self,  of  clearer  eye, 

Of  firmer  nerve,  and  sturdier  mien; 
Through  you,  methinks,  my  long-lost  youth 
£  Revives,  from  wjiose  sweet  founts  of  truth, 


SONNET.  i 

And  joy,  I  drink  my  fill : 
-  I  feel  your  every  heart-throb,  know 
^,What  inmost  hopes  within  you  glow, — 
~/  One  soul's  between  us,  Will! 

Pray  Heaven  that  this  be  always  so  ! 

That  ever  on  your  soul  and  mine 
Though  my  thin  locks  grow  white  as  snow, — 

The  self-same  radiant  trust  may  shine; — 
Pray  that  while  this,  my  life,  endures, 
It  aye  may  sympathize  with  yours 

In  thought,  aim,  action  still; 
That  you,  O  son  (till  comes  the  end), 
In  me  may  find  your  comrade,  friend, 
And  more  than  father,  Will ! 


SONNET. 

I  CAST  this  sorrow  from  me  like  a  crown 
Of  bitter  nettles,  and  unwholesome  weeds, 
Nursed  by  cold  night-dews,  from  malignant  seeds, 
111  Fortune  sowed,  when  all  the  Heaven  did  frown ; 
Its  loathsome  round  I  trample  deeply  down 
In  mire  and  dust,  to  burn  my  brain  no  more; 
From  off  my  brow  I  wipe  the  trickling  gore, 
While  all  about  me,  like  keen  clarions  blown, 
From  breezy  dells,  and  golden  heights  afar, 
Their  stern  reveille  the  wild  March  winds  sound; 
They  wake  an  answering  passion  in  my  soul, 
Whence,  marshaled  as  brave  warriors,  taking  ground 
For  noblest  conflict,  freed  from  doubt  or  dole, 
Great  Thoughts  uprising,  front  Hope's  morning  star! 
16 


,82  LEGENDS  AND   LYRICS. 


TO    MY   MOTHER. 

LIKE  streamlets  to  a  silent  sea, 

These  songs  with  varied  motion 
Flow  from  bright  Fancy's  uplands  free, 

To  Lethe's  clouded  ocean; 
They  lapse  in  deepening  music  down 

The  slopes  of  flower-lit  meadows, 
Nor  dream,  poor  songs !  how  near  them  frown 

Oblivion's  rayless  shadows! 

Yet  though  of  brief  and  dubious  life, 
-     All  wed  to  incompleteness, — 
The  voices  of  these  lays  are  rife 

With  frail  and  fleeting  sweetness ; 
One  chord  to  make  more  full  the  strain, 

One  note  I  may  not  smother, 
Is  echoed  in  the  heart's  refrain 

Which  holds  thy  name,  my  mother ! 

To  thee  my  earliest  verse  I  brought, 

All  wreathed  in  loves  and  roses, — 
Some  glowing  boyish  fancy,  fraught 

With  tender  May-wind  closes; 
Thou  did'st  not  taunt  my  fledgling  song, 

Nor  view  its  flight  with  scorning; 
''The  bird,"  thou  said'st,  "grown  fleet  and  strong, 

Might  yet  outsoar  the  morning!" 


TO   MY  MOTHER.  183 

Ah  me !  between  that  hour  and  this, 

Eternities  seem  flowing ; 
O'er  hapless  graves  of  youth  and  bliss 

Dark  cypress  boughs  are  growing; 
Our  Fate  hath  dimmed  with  base  alloy 

The  rich,  pure  gold  of  pleasure, 
And  changed  the  choral  chant  of  joy 

To  Care's  heart-broken  measure ! 

But  through  it  all, — the  blight,  the  pall, 
The  stress  of  thunderous  weather, — 

That  God  who  keeps  wild  chance  in  thrall 
Hath  linked  our  lots  together ; 

So,  hand  in  hand,  we  sail  the  gloom, 

i     Faith's  mystic  plummet  casting 

To  sound  the  ways  which  end  in  bloom 
Of  Edens  everlasting ! 

I  bless  thee,  Dear,  with  reverent  thought ! 

Pale  face,  and  tresses  hoary, 
Whose  every  silvery  thread  hath  caught 

Some  hint  of  heavenly  glory; — 
To  Thee,  with  trust  assured,  sublime, 

Death's  angel-call  that  waitest, — 
To  thee,  as  once  my  earliest  rhyme, 

Lo !  now,  I  bring — my  latest ! 


THE   END. 


